


Ash Song

by Rezeren



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom, Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 2P Hetalia, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bittersweet Ending, Canon Universe, Fear, Horror, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Paranoia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Horror, Quite possibly the slowest slow burn you'll ever read, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Survival Horror, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2018-04-30 04:01:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 166,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5149523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rezeren/pseuds/Rezeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the 5th of November, 2010, England went missing. The other nations searched everywhere for him but their efforts were in vain. On the 5th of November, 2015, England reappears, unaware of what has happened to him over the last five years. But he has changed- and as the memories start to resurface, he begins to recall just why he was running in the first place. USUK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. River Calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT (IMPORTANT) Ok so it's been almost two years since I posted this. Holy shit. Anyway, at the beginning, having not planned out what was going to happen (as you can see below), I hadn't at the time anticipated some of the content I'd include in the story. Over the course of me writing it, I've kind of realised there should be warnings and extra info for new readers, in case anyone is triggered by anything:
> 
> x There will be violence. Fairly graphic in some areas. Not very often, but there will be mentions of torture. I tried to reference it vaguely for the most part, so I wouldn't have to boost the rating to an M.
> 
> x The 2Ps appear hella evil, and there is a reason for this. Normally, I'd be part of the fandom that likes to believe that the 2Ps aren't necessarily evil versions of the 1Ps, simply a bit different. In any other story I'll likely write in the future, I'll probably support that headcanon all the way. BUT. Their personalities and behaviour have been altered from how I'd usually prefer to perceive them. It all ties in with this very specific plot I have in mind, which is kinda the entire point of the story. Something has happened to them. Something has gone wrong in their world. If you're cool with waiting what is probably gonna be a while for me to reveal why I've done this, then welcome to the story.
> 
> x The romance is like. Practically non-existent. For now, anyway. I still haven't gotten around to writing any romantic implications between America and England. Don't get me wrong, I ship the hell of them. They're my OTP of OTPs. But romance isn't an especially important part of the story. It will pop up at some point eventually, but I'm more inclined to simply focus on the bond between them, no matter what form it's in.
> 
> x There will be lots of references to PTSD and occasional suicidal thoughts.
> 
> x There's more info about all of this on my blog, found here: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
>  
> 
> Happy 5th of November to those who celebrate! I most certainly do (hence the publication of this story. Started writing it over a month ago, but decided to save it until today). I can hear fireworks, and I'm not even in the UK right now. But I'm going to the bonfire on Saturday. Couple of days too late but oh well! '^^
> 
> Ahem. Anyway. The story.
> 
> Not planned out. Well, imagined extensively and I know what the big plot is, but the way we get there is uncharted. Excellent, now I sound like a sailor. Or a pirate. Like England, I prefer the latter. XD
> 
> Anywho, I've put USUK in the summary because I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have some good old America/England in this story (and if you've clicked on this then you like or tolerate that pairing, so that's good ^^).
> 
> Gonna have 2Ps too. That'll be a fun ride.

The air is crisp and clear.

The night sky is glowing across the country with the light of dancing flames and full with the sound of laughter. The children watch, eagerly anticipated, as their parents throw the first matches to light the fires, and the constructed figures on the pyres go up in flames.

Deep within the heart of the nation, people stare up in wonder at the sky, though not because of the fireworks. The celebrations are interrupted by exclamations of surprise from the adults and delight from the children. Although it is only early November, it is snowing in London.

The strange phenomenon goes unacknowledged by one figure, tearing through the streets of the city with no signs of slowing down. He throws himself down the steps of Trafalgar Square, soaring past the great statues of the lions and continues on his journey, the momentum enforcing his speed. He ignores the people all around him, pointing and talking about the white flakes descending from the dark, cloudy night sky.

Finally, a street corner that is completely unoccupied. The figure falls against the wall in an expression of exhaustion and takes a few gulps of air, eyes darting around wildly to ensure he is truly alone. He reaches with a shaky hand into the pocket of his coat and pulls out his phone.

The news is thriving, buzzing with the story of the spontaneous weather. It doesn't often snow here, even in the winter, and the general public are in awe. The headlines read: _**Snowing In London.**_ The figure closes the news stories on his phone and is about to shove it back in his pocket when it vibrates with a new message.

_**It's not snow.** _

He stares at his phone for a second, suddenly conscious of the swirling pale flakes surrounding him. Eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed, he takes in the sight of the 'snow' coming to rest gently on the pavements of the lonely darkened street.

A new message pops up from the same unknown number. Want to learn the truth?

The figure throws the phone to the ground and it smashes to pieces, little shards of black plastic and tiny electrical circuits burying themselves in the 'snow'. By the time he has reached the end of the street and has turned the corner, the little broken device is hidden from sight.

He eventually reaches a bridge and looks out towards the London Eye. Between both points is the Thames, the waters swirling directly beneath him. He races along the bridge, heading for the opposite bank, putting as much distance as possible between himself and where he came from.

Once on the opposite side, he forces himself to keep moving, though it takes little effort. Although his body is reaching its limit, the adrenalin keeps him going, and he knows that no matter what, he must keep running. He _cannot_ stop.

He can see the Houses of Parliament on the side of the river he came from, casting a glowing reflection across the ripples of the water. With the addition of the falling 'snow', the light seems almost ethereal. Is it meant to be glowing this much? His green eyes widen even further in shock as he hears a massive explosion erupting from the opposite side of the river and the windows of the buildings are shattered in an instant, flames bursting forth from each one with furious power. The Houses of Parliament seem to quiver for a second, almost as if in shock, before crumbling to pieces. Through waves of smoke and debris, the clock tower of Big Ben teeters over before collapsing on top of the rest of the wreckage.

He takes a step back, letting out a cry of shock. In the blink of an eye, everything has been restored. The Houses of Parliament and Big Ben stand silent and intact, the lights dim and normal. It was just a hallucination. The bright lights and loud noises are just the fireworks. The only flames are from the bonfires.

But it felt so _real._

Shaking, he notices that a new glow is appearing, though this one is much lighter and is coming from the Thames itself, from the waters directly in front of him. He leans up against the railings and looks down into the river. The water is shining, forming a circular shape in the darkened waters.

He glances around quickly, looking to see if any of the people in the surrounding area are marveling at the strange light in the Thames. But no one seems to notice it- they're all walking around, taking pictures on their phones of the 'snow' or just getting on with their usual business. Anyone who does happen to glance at the river doesn't seem to notice it's there; so, it's probably another hallucination, an illusion only he can see.

He leans closer, eyes narrowing in confusion, and in that instant he feels the pull of the anomaly dragging him forwards and he lets out one last shout before his body collides with the surface of the water and he tumbles down into its icy depths.

The water has dimmed now and the light has faded. He is swallowed by the darkness and it's as if some invisible force is pulling him down- at least, it might be visible, but he can no longer see anything. The freezing water is pressing against his skin in some kind of icy burn and his body tenses up, almost as if it doesn't even want to resist the thing that's dragging him down. He struggles weakly, glancing upwards in a desperate attempt to reach the surface of the water.

He can see light- the light of the night sky, colourful and frequent in bursts here and there. It must be the fireworks. He can faintly see them, though they're growing more and more distant by the second as he sinks further into the Thames.

His chest is aching terribly now, though not from the cold. He shudders and when when he can no longer resist the urge, he takes an involuntary breath. Water floods his mouth and what's left of his visions swims alarmingly. He can feel the forces pressing him from every angle and he can do nothing to escape it.

As his awareness fails, he is swallowed by the darkness.

* * *

 When he opens his eyes, he notices that he is underwater.

In a flurry of panic, he kicks downwards with all his force and the surface falls down to meet him. In an instant, he has broken free from his icy cold prison.

He catches sight of a cloudy black sky, glittered with scattered snowflakes, just as it was when he went under beforehand. He glances over hastily to look for an exit and finds a low hanging edge on the river bank around twenty feet away. He sets out towards it and uses the railing to haul himself out of the water. Once he has successfully escaped, he falls against the concrete ground and begins coughing up the water in inhaled when he was struggling for breath beforehand.

Once he has ensured that he can breathe normally again, he pushes himself to his feet, ignoring his exhausted body as it groans in protest. His mind is a flurry of panic- he has to keep running, has to-

'You alright, mate? Did you fall in?'

'Wh- what?'

There's a man standing nearby, surrounded by a few other people. They look fairly young, probably in their mid twenties, all watching him curiously. He swallows nervously.

'You're soaking wet. Should we call someone?' a woman says worriedly.

'I'm... I'm fine, I just- I have to go-'

'What's your name? Do you have someone to pick you up?'

'I- Arthur. Arthur Kirkland,' he replies, noticing a stutter in his own voice. Well, of course. He just climbed out a freezing cold river. 'And no, I'm fine, I just have to...'

_Keep running. Don't stop running. Run, run, run._

'It's as good a night as any to get pissed, right?' one man says with a dopey grin. He is clearly quite wasted himself, and he and the others obviously believe that this soaking wet man they've just encountered is so drunk that he actually fell in the river.

'Y-yes, I suppose it is...' He is already taking his first shaky steps away from these people. He needs to keep running, needs to-

After about forty steps, he can't run anymore. He slows to a hesitant walk before he reaches a telephone booth. The glass is cracked and it's clear that the thing is hardly used. He knows he needs to run, but he physically can't. He needs to find another way to get out of here. But as he searches in his pockets, he can't find any money. All he needs is a twenty pence coin and he can have his call, but all he finds in his pocket is some knife or other-

Hang on. A knife?

He pulls the instrument out and stares at it in shock, suddenly feeling the overwhelming, unexplainable urge to clutch onto it and never let go. The hilt is wooden and painted emerald green, and it fits perfectly in his palm when he clenches his fist around it. The blade is about six inches long and seems to glow in silvery light, though that could just be from one of the overhead street lamps. The tip of the blade looks extremely sharp. How did it come to be in his possession?

Well, however he came by it, it most certainly belongs to him, and he's not parting with it.

He jabs forward with it, attacking the lock to the box that holds the change people have placed in here to make phone calls in the past. He doesn't even have to twist the dagger- the blade seems to melt through the metal like it's butter. The coins come tumbling out: an abundance of twenty pence pieces, far more than he'll need. He picks one up and quickly shoves it in the coin slot.

He can't really explain why he's phoning this person. In his panicked state, a primal sense has awoken within him, one that requires comfort and safety, and his mind flashes back to one particular person who could sometimes protect him when he ran scared as a child.

 _'Hello?'_ a voice says finally, sounding tired.

'Wales,' he chokes. 'Wales, I need help.'

There's silence for a few seconds, then the voice says, _'Who is this?'_

He looks around nervously, every instinct in his body telling him to run, but he knows he needs to stay on the line. 'It's me, England.'

The silence is deafening now. Surely it's lasted too long?

'W-Wales? Are you there?'

A few seconds later, he finally gets his reply. _'England? It's you?'_

'Yes, it's me,' England replies with an air of frustration. Honestly, is Wales drunk or something? 'Where are you? Are you in Cardiff? How soon can you get to London?'

_'… England?'_

'Yes, we've already established that.' Of all the nights for his elder brother to be particularly unresponsive and therefore unhelpful, why does it have to be tonight? He needs to get out of here.

 _'It's... it's really you?'_ There's a definite hollow sound in Wales's voice now.

England resists the urge to slap his forehead. 'Please, Wales. I need you to get me out of here now.'

_'W... Where have you been?'_

'I...' England shivers, ever conscious of his drenched clothes. He's not exactly getting any warmer, and it's still snowing outside. But is it really snow? 'I've been in London today. I... it's hard to explain, but I kind of fell in the Thames. I'm, uh, really cold and rather wet, and I really need to get out of the city as quickly as possible, but I have no cash on me and no means of transportation, and to top it off I'm right in the centre of London...' He's rambling now, and he's really hoping Wales is following.

'I'm not feeling too good,' he confesses with another shiver. 'And I honestly can't stress enough how much I need to get out of here. I'm in a phone booth, not far from the Eye. Can you please come and-'

_'England.'_

'Y-yes?'

_'E... England, you're really here, aren't you?'_

'Wales, please, I don't have time for this,' England begs. 'I need you to sober up really fast and come and get me, or so help me, I'm calling Scotland instead.'

_'You're... alive...'_

'Well, uh, yes. I mean, I almost drowned, and if I don't g-get warm soon then there probably is a slight possibility of me catching hypothermia, but...' He's speaking very fast and feels particularly light headed now. He wishes Wales would hurry up and find him.

Without any control, the phones slips through his fingers. He doesn't really feel as if he's actually there. To be honest, it all feels like a dream now. The world is tilting at a funny angle and it's going dark.

He's unconscious before he hits the ground, and although he is no longer awake, the knife stays firmly gripped in his hand.

* * *

 There are images flashing in his mind. They're bright and hard to understand, but England can make out figures and muffled voices. He's enlightened with a sense of truth- time has passed, too much time. He's spent a while somewhere else, but as the dream fades, so does his knowledge of where that might be.

When he opens his eyes, the first thing he sees is the window. It's daytime now, and the sky is pale and cloudy. The snow is gone. But it wasn't snow, was it? England knows that it wasn't snow. Something tells him that deep down he knows what it really was, but he can't remember.

And that's the creepy part. He honestly can't remember. He knows a considerable amount of time has passed. He wasn't aware at first when he climbed out of the river, but he is now. The time spent unconscious has helped him understand.

He fell in the river a long time ago, then a large amount of time has passed (he thinks, anyway), and then he climbed out of the river. But what does that mean? Has he spent an eternity in the Thames or something? And how is it that he's even aware that time has passed? He honestly didn't realise anything was different when he climbed out the river, but since he lost consciousness in the phone booth, some form of memory has returned to him.

He doesn't know how long it's been and he has no idea where he was during that time in between blacking out in the water and coming to later on. Surely he can't have been in the river the whole time? But he woke up in it, woke up exactly where he blacked out in the first place...

He looks around the room he's in and quickly figures out that he's in a hospital. He appears to have quite a number of blankets on him and doesn't seem to be sharing the room with any other patients. In fact, the only other person in here is a nurse, who looks surprised when England tries to sit up.

'Don't strain yourself, Mr Kirkland,' she advises. 'I'll go get the doctor straight away, and your brothers will be relieved to know that you've woken up.'

Brothers? England resists the urge to sigh. Damn Wales. He must have found England in the phone booth, brought him to hospital and called Scotland up. Oh God, what if Ireland's here too? Oh, this is going to be a nightmare...

'Excuse me... what is the date?' he has to ask.

She smiles. 'You've been unconscious for around thirty hours, sir. It's the seventh of November.'

Not very helpful. He really needs to know what year it is, because something inside him honestly tells him that he's been gone for a long time.

The minute the nurse has left the room, England practically throws himself out of bed. His panicked instincts have awoken as he suddenly recalls that he needs to run. But he doesn't move. His head is throbbing painfully and his legs feel particularly weak and his chest hurts. Besides, he wants to know where that knife he had before is. A part of him knows that he needs it.

When Scotland and Wales walk in, they find England rummaging around in the drawer under the bedside table, muttering under his breath. Scotland clears his throat noisily to announce their presence.

England's head shoots up and his eyes dart over to his brothers with a slightly feral look in his eyes. His fist clenches around the air as if he's holding an invisible weapon.

'Where's my knife?' he demands.

Wales simply stares at him in shock, but Scotland is a little too miffed about this to remain calm. 'Five damn years and that's all yeh have to say?'

 _Oh,_ England thinks, finally glad to know how long it's been. _Five years. It must be 2015._ For some reason, this doesn't alarm him.

Scotland walks over slowly, eyebrows furrowed in irritation. 'Where the hell have yeh been, England?'

'That,' England replies, 'is a good question. But I believe I asked first. Where's my knife?'

'Yeh disappeared for five years, England,' Scotland says, barely managing to keep his voice calm. 'No contact from yeh whatsoever.'

'Yeah, I broke my phone. Long story. Where's my-'

'Never mind the damn knife!' Scotland explodes, closing the gap between himself and his little brother. He grabs England's arms and begins to shake the smaller nation. 'We thought you were bloody dead!'

'Scotland!' Wales cries out, racing over to try and separate his siblings. 'Please, he's recovering! He can answer our questions later!'

'I- I can't,' England says, pulling himself out of Scotland's grip. 'I need my knife and I need to leave-'

'What the hell are yeh talking about? Yeh show up after five years and- and-' Suddenly, Scotland doesn't seem angry anymore. His voice falters and now he just looks lost.

England's having problems of his own. He legs have lost all feeling and no longer seem to be able to support him. On top of that, he feels very cold again and his vision is failing. He stumbles backwards towards his bed but doesn't quite make it. His legs give way and he crumbles downwards. Wales and Scotland aren't quick enough but someone else quickly swoops in without the others noticing, catching England right before he hits the ground.

'Get back into bed, yeh damn idiot,' says Ireland gruffly, pulling his little brother up and practically dumping him back on the hospital bed. 'The doctor will be along in a minute and he'll put yeh out if yeh start struggling.'

'I-Irleand?' England says uncertainly. His head is swimming.

'That's right. Now lie down already.'

'Five years?'

'We'll get to that later,' Wales says in a soothing tone, trying to help settle England down. Of the three elder brothers, Wales was always the nicest. 'Just rest, brawd bach.'

'I... I don't know where... the river...'

'Settle down,' Scotland instructs.

And England does as he's told, even though every part of him is screaming to _run._


	2. Reality Falls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa. Wasn't expecting this to be so successful. Thanks, guys!
> 
> I don't usually update so quickly but I was overwhelmed with all your feedback and I already had this chapter and the next one written out, and I'm currently working on the fourth chapter. By that point, we shall be seeing the other nations aside from just England and his brothers. Beforehand, I want to establish England's current mental state and his new place in the world he left behind.
> 
> Allons-y!

After the doctor's inspected him properly and then told him to rest a little longer, England lies in bed, his heart pounding furiously. He feels jumpy and restless. He shouldn't be here. He should be running.

But why?

He tries to concentrate on exactly why he even needs to run, and why he needs that knife, but he can't remember. But why was he running in the first place, back before he fell in the river? Has he forgotten that too?

**_It's not snow._ **

None of this is down to logic or reason, though. He instinctively knows that he's not safe. He has to run as far away as possible.

_I was running before, but I can't remember why. I fell in the river. Five years later, I climbed out of the river. There's no way I could have been in the Thames all that time. But where have I been? Why can't I remember?_

_I've been gone all this time, and my brothers had no idea that I was even still alive, let alone where I was? What about the other nations? Do they think I'm dead too?_

Five years. He's missed an entire five years. Half a decade, gone. What's happened while he's been away? Have things changed much?

When night comes again and the hospital grows a little quieter, he decides to try and run again, but he's not leaving without his knife. There's something about that blade, something important, something that tells him that he needs it.

It's his protection.

As he slides out of bed, he knows deep down that he won't be getting far. Something's wrong with him. Something's very wrong. He can't walk properly. His legs are so weak and his chest is hurting terribly and he feels so light headed. But how's he meant to escape if he can't even make it more than a few feet?

'Going somewhere?'

England jumps violently, his hands instinctively flying to his side for a knife that isn't even there. In the corner of the room, previously hidden in shadows, he watches his eldest brother rise from a chair.

'Of course they weren't going to let yeh keep the bloody knife, so yeh can stop looking for it,' Scotland says with a strange level of calm.

'Aren't the visiting hours over?' England gasps, slowly lowering himself back onto the bed. The strain of standing is taking its toll on him.

'I had a few strings pulled.' Scotland walks over to England and stands directly in front of him. 'So, how concerned should we be 'bout the fact that yeh spend every waking moment trying to get away?'

'Hell if I know,' England mutters.

'And are yeh planning on doing any explaining at all?'

'What is it you want to hear?'

'Oh, I don't know. Maybe where yeh've been for the last five years. If it's not too much trouble.' Scotland's voice is laced with sarcasm.

England sighs. 'If I knew, things would be a lot simpler. There's a possibility I spent the entire time in the river, though that seems extremely unlikely.'

Scotland stares at him. 'What are yeh trying to say?'

'I'm saying I don't remember,' England says. 'The last thing I recall from the fifth of November, 2010 was falling into the Thames. I blacked out and when I woke up, I climbed out the river to find that five years had passed. That's weird, even by my standards. I honestly don't think a simple hangover could be that severe, do you?'

'Yeh've got amnesia?'

'Mild form, yes. I would imagine you know more about the last five years than I do. So, am I officially missing or something?'

'Yeh were declared dead two years ago,' Scotland says quietly. 'No one could come up with a better explanation. Nations have died before. Everyone assumed yeh'd met that fate too.'

'Everyone thinks I'm dead? They gave up?' England feels an uncomfortable twist in his stomach at that thought of everyone dismissing him.

'Doesn't mean there wasn't a search,' Scotland replies. 'We spent the first three years trying to find yeh. But yeh'd literally vanished off the face of the earth. And yer disappearance almost started a war. Nations grew paranoid, thinking that another country may have captured yeh as some sort of territorial invasion. Europe was a bloody mess.'

'And the people? My people, what happened to them?' Suddenly, England is more than anxious, he is frightened. A disappearing nation can hardly spell good news for the people of said country.

'Apart from the severely declining economy at first? They held on. Officially, England is still a registered country. The humans obviously don't know about our existence, so they aren't aware that yeh disappeared. Besides, yeh may be yer own nation but yeh're still part of Great Britain 'longside me and Wales, so we are able to substitute for yer loss. I'm the one who has to go to those damn world meetings in yer place now. I see why yeh hated them so much.' Scotland laughs bitterly.

'And the government and the monarchy...?'

'Still intact.'

England breathes a sigh of relief. 'Good.'

Scotland frowns. 'Yeh're dead to the world, England. Nothing good 'bout it.'

'Well, I'm back now.'

'Yeah, yeh are.'

There's a moment of silence, then England asks, 'Have you told the other nations?'

'No. It's just me, Wales 'n Ireland. No one else knows.'

A part of England is itching to know if the other nations have actually missed him. To be honest, he can't really say he has many friends and he knows that many openly dislike him, but surely the world felt his loss? Why else would they spend three years searching for him?'

_Only three, though. That's not long for a nation. They gave up on me._

England leans forwards and puts his head in his hands. The aching is getting progressively worse.

'Have yeh forgotten how to sleep or something?' Scotland says grumpily, though England can tell he isn't really irritated anymore. A small part of him is wishing that Scotland really is glad that his little brother is back. They never see eye to eye, but England wants Scotland to care.

'Miss me?' he manages as his body trembles and he feels himself falling backwards onto his pillow.

He sees Scotland open his mouth but he doesn't stay conscious long enough to hear the reply.

* * *

'… When are we going to tell them?'

'At the meeting?'

'No way, moron, everyone will literally be talking about nothing else and they'll never actually discuss the things they're meant to be talking about.'

'Come on, it's a G8 summit meeting. It's not like anyone ever stays on topic anyway.'

'Besides, it's a perfect opportunity. We'll have the chance to talk about it with seven other nations. It's better if we don't break it to the entire world at once. We'll start small, okay? We should tell them then.'

England opens his eyes and once again practically throws himself out of bed, thrashing around wildly with his arms. A second later he's on the floor, his legs still unable to carry him.

'Get back into bed, stupid, yeh'll only embarrass yerself,' Ireland says, rolling his eyes.

England struggles to push himself off the ground and only manages to move when Wales walks over to help him back onto the bed.

Wales takes his seat next to Scotland and Ireland in the chairs opposite England's bed, clearly not quite ready to resume their discussion now that they know their younger brother is awake.

'Oh, please continue,' England says dryly. 'As the conversation was about me, I'm sure it won't matter much if I know what is being said.'

'We're just talking about how we should go about informing the other nations that yeh've come back,' Scotland says.

'I was saying yeh should start phoning everyone up and saying stuff like _guess who's back?'_ Ireland suggests with a mischievous glint in his eyes. 'That should really freak 'em out; I mean, yeh've already had tremendous success with Wales. He almost had a heart attack when yeh called him from that phone booth. And Scotland and I weren't exactly expecting to hear a hysterical Wales callin' us up to say that he'd just gotten a phone call from yeh.'

'Can you please take this seriously?' Wales says, exasperated.

'Just tryin' to make light of an extremely improbable situation,' Ireland says casually, leaning back on his chair. 'I mean, how are yeh meant to tell everyone that yer supposedly deceased little brother has magically returned from the dead?'

Scotland rolls his eyes. 'Anyway,' he says, 'we're trying to decide whether to come out with the truth at the G8 next week.'

'There's a G8 meeting next week?'

'Aye, in America.'

'America...' England says slowly, suddenly wondering what America must have thought of his disappearance. And suddenly a jolt of fear runs through his body and he quickly jumps up again, only to be restrained by Scotland almost immediately.

'Seriously, England, yeh've gotta stop doing that,' Scotland grunts. 'It's like yeh're expecting to be murdered or something.'

But England can barely hear his brother over the sound of the blood pumping in his ears and his shaky, uneven breath. This isn't right. He can't be here. He has to run, before-

'Calm down, brawd bach,' Wales tries to soothe him again.

'Can't- can't-' England gasps.

'What's wrong with him?' Ireland demands.

'I can't stay here,' England insists.

'Yeh can't even walk,' Scotland says. 'Yeh'll be staying right here until yeh're strong to leave.'

'But... I have to...'

_'Can't be weak, can we? Weakness gets you killed.'_

England yelps and clutches his head. It's not real. That voice is just in his head. It's not _real._

_'If you want to survive, you have to be strong.'_

The pain in his head is searing now. The voice isn't real... but it _was_ real, in the past. This is a _memory._ One of his lost memories, coming _back._

_'If you can't make it, I'll kill you myself.'_

There's something sharp being jabbed into his arm. Is it a weapon? Is the owner of the voice killing him like they said they would? No... it's a needle. The doctors have rushed in and England's brothers are standing back, letting their little brother get put out.

_No... if I am unconscious, I am defenceless. If I am defenceless, I am weak. If I am weak, I die._

_That's the game._

'It's alright,' the people around him are saying, but it's not. They're going to send him to sleep, and he can't protect himself when he's asleep. He can't even protect himself when he's awake; he's ill and someone's taken his only weapon away.

His eyelids are growing heavy and his heart is thumping wildly in panic. 'Sc... Scotland...' he croaks, trying to get his brothers to stop this from happening. 'Ire... l... nd... W... l... s...'

_I'll die. I'm going to die if I lose._

_They'll find me._

* * *

Each time he awakens, he repeats his actions: desperately throwing himself out of bed, quickly searching around for his knife, attempting to run... but he's always apprehended before he can make it to the door and he never does find the dagger. Besides, he can't walk more than a few feet.

His brothers aren't always there, but more often than not there's usually at least one of them sitting nearby. It's normally Wales. He's always the one with the most compassion towards England, and the one with the most patience.

'We've informed the Prime Minister of your return,' Wales informs England after the younger has been forced back into bed and told that sedative won't be used on him if he stops struggling. 'Obviously, there's enough confidentiality about your existence alone, so the news that you're still alive is still being kept from everyone. The Prime Minister-'

'Who?'

'What?'

'Who's the Prime Minister? It was David Cameron when I left, but there must have been another general election in May.'

Wales almost looks amused. 'You sure have missed a lot, brawd bach. It's still Cameron. Though how he managed to secure another term after how rubbish the economy's been in the last five years is beyond me. Most people blame him, after all; it only started to go downhill a few months after he was elected- back when you disappeared.'

England's eyes drift over to the window as his brother is speaking. He's never made it close enough to the glass so he doesn't actually know what floor he's on. In his state, could he even survive a fall? He's a nation, so he has a higher durability than humans... and with everyone trying to stop him from running, it's not like the door is a valid escape route anymore...

'Anyway, as I was saying, the Prime Minister hasn't actually told any of the other world leaders, so none of the other nations should know about your return yet.' Wales smiles, all of a sudden. 'And the doctors say that you're making a steady recovery. They want you to try walking as soon as you're up for it-'

England is already out the bed before Wales can finish his sentence. 'I'm fine, see? Ready to go.'

'Are you sure?' Wales looks worried. 'They said to take it slow-'

'I want to get out of here as soon as possible,' England replies. 'But I'm not cooperating with anyone until I get my knife back.'

Wales is frowning now. 'England, what's the deal with this knife? We found it on you in the telephone booth. Why do you want it so badly? What aren't you telling us?'

'You know where it is?'

'England, please-'

'It's mine. I need it back.'

'But why? Where did you find it? Did you have it on you when you climbed out the river? And why are you so intent on running away?'

'I... I don't know.' England tries taking a couple of steps forwards. He's already feeling sick but he is able to put more pressure on his legs. Good. He should be ready to get away as fast as possible soon. But why? 'I don't know _why_ I need to run, or why I need my knife. All I know is that I _do_ need these things. It's... instinctive, I suppose.'

Wales is silent for a few seconds before he says, 'Do you really not remember anything from the last five years?'

England shakes his head, deciding not to mention that cruel voice he heard or how he can see flashes of what he assumes are memories in his dreams, although they seem to flutter away just out of his reach only moments after waking up.

'I don't know what happened to me,' he says finally. 'I know things are really different now.'

He knows he's changed, but he isn't sure why. All he knows for certain is that he can't trust safety because there is no true safety, and that he must find his protection.

And then he must _run_ , because otherwise _they'll_ find him.

_They?_

When he closes his eyes next, he's greeted with the sight of a malicious pair of crimson eyes watching him from the waves of darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for all the feedback, and remember to review!


	3. Lost Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, you guys are almost as awesome as Prussia.
> 
> Seriously, the feedback I'm getting is great! Thanks so much!
> 
> (Okay, yeah, you still don't get to see America and the others in this chapter, but I have written the next one already and I promise they're in it!)
> 
> Allons-y!

Two days later, England is released from the hospital, with instructions to rest as much as he can and not overexert himself. He's a little surprised when Ireland is the one who comes to collect him and take him home.

'Someone's gotta watch over yeh, make sure yeh don't start acting all batshit again,' the elder mutters as the two of them walk through the main entrance to the hospital and out into the car park.

'Yes, but why you?'

Ireland raises his eyebrows. 'What's that supposed to mean?'

England rolls his eyes. 'Come on. You resent me even more than Scotland does. This isn't like you at all.'

Ireland glares at him. 'Well, maybe I shouldn't have come to pick up an ungrateful brat such as yerself.'

'Oh good. That sounds more like the Ireland I know.'

'Just get in the car.'

The drive is uncomfortably silent. Now that he's finally escaped the hospital, England finds himself bursting with questions. If he's going to find a way to protect himself, he needs to know more about the world he's stumbled back into.

'Where is Scotland? How come he or Wales didn't pick me up?'

'Wales has gone to visit Downing Street and Scotland's gone back up to Edinburgh to prepare his notes for the G8.'

'Can I go to the G8?'

Ireland makes a 'tsk' noise. 'It's not up to me. I'm not part of the G8, am I? Scotland's the one who's going, idiot.'

'I need to be there, though,' England reasons. 'If Scotland's going to announce to the other members that I'm back, he'll probably need me there as proof. Plus, I was an original member of it. I have the right to be there.'

'Not since yeh disappeared, yeh haven't. And before yeh ask, yeh obviously can't take that ruddy dagger if yeh are going.'

'How can I? No one's given it back to me yet.'

'What's it for, anyway?'

'Fishing,' England says sarcastically. 'It's obviously for protecting myself.'

'Oh, obviously,' Ireland mutters, emphasising the sarcasm even more than his little brother did. 'I mean, that's completely normal, having a great big knife on yeh to protect yerself from who knows what. Silly me.' He suddenly straightens up in the car seat, his face serious. 'Why do yeh think yeh need protecting? Is someone after yeh?'

_Yes. I think someone- or something- is._ 'I don't know,' England lies.

'Was... was someone chasing yeh? Is that what happened over the last five years? Were yeh... captured or something?'

England shivers. Of all the theories he's heard so far, this one seems the most plausible. But he doesn't say anything. He just shakes his head so his brother won't be onto him and keeps quiet for the rest of the ride.

They place England in his London house in Hampstead. The place seems fairly occupied and England quickly realises that despite his absence over the last five years, Scotland and Wales have obviously been using it on occasion.

England quickly prepares himself a cup of tea (the stuff they gave him in the hospital was hardly adequate) and decides to pick up a few newspapers to do some catching up. Ireland hangs around not far away, refusing to leave until at least the time when Wales will arrive back from Downing Street.

'Can't bloody leave yeh alone, can we? Who knows what yeh'd try doing?' Ireland mutters in his gruff voice, reaching into the fridge for a beer.

'Someone's been living here while I've been away,' England observes, leaning up against the kitchen counter and glancing around the place.

'Wales 'n Scotland stay here a lot,' Ireland says. 'They had more work to do these past five years. More reason to come to London. And Sealand comes by sometimes too.'

England's eyes widen in surprise. 'Sealand?'

'He stays occasionally when the others are here. He's kind of begun to hang around the rest of his family more, funnily enough.'

England says nothing in reply. He just quietly sips his tea.

* * *

When Wales finally arrives, Ireland decides it's time to leave. Apparently there's a plane leaving from Heathrow Airport to Dublin in two hours time and Ireland doesn't want to miss it, despite Wales telling him it's stupid to leave so late in the day.

While Wales heads for the study to sort through some important documents, England corners Ireland as the elder is shuffling towards the door with his bags.

'I want to know what you've all done with my knife,' England says.

Ireland halts and examines his younger brother carefully. 'What makes yeh think I'd tell yeh?'

'Because you're the least likely to care.' England says it so simply, as if making an observation regarding the weather.

An icy look crosses over Ireland's face. 'Is that so?' he says softly.

England shifts uncomfortably. 'Well, why else would you be so keen to get away?'

'Because I have work to do, obviously,' Ireland says coldly. 'Can't exactly stay around, havin' to listen to a wretched brat.'

England clenches his fists. 'I take it you're not going to tell me where the knife is, then.'

'Hmm, let's see? Should I give a paranoid, delusional runaway fresh out of hospital a dangerous weapon? Tough choice.'

'Give it to me?' England echoes. 'Does that mean you have it?'

Ireland winces slightly, then regains his composure. 'No. Scotland does.'

'You're lying.' England is becoming increasingly sure of himself. 'Scotland's given it to you to take away from me. You're taking it back with you to Dublin because you don't want me to find it.'

Ireland stares at it for a second. 'England, yeh don't  _need_ it.'

'How would you know? It's mine and I want it back.'

'And how can I trust yeh with it?'

'I'm not a delinquent, Ireland. You were happy allowing me to arm myself when I was a  _child_ , so I don't see why your morals should prevent you from letting me keep a weapon now.'

Ireland curses in Gaelic and reaches into his coat pocket for the dagger. England feels a leaping sensation in chest as his eyes fall on his weapon. Ireland has wrapped it up in a cloth but England can see the hilt of it poking out the top, still a beautiful, unscratched emerald green.

'I must be bloody mad,' Ireland mutters, handing his brother the knife. 'Yeh better not be planning to attack anyone with this thing.'

'Only the people who attack me first,' England answers easily, and Ireland freezes.

'No one's going to attack yeh. Why do you keep insisting that yeh're in danger?'

England looks down at the weapon in his hands. 'I don't know.'

* * *

In the week leading up to the G8, England agrees to visit the Prime Minister in Downing Street to confirm his return, and then he insists that Wales lets him go visit the Queen. England gets to meet little Prince George and tiny Princess Charlotte for the first time and is completely gutted that he was missing when both children were born. Gutted that he missed William and Kate getting married too. Gutted that he missed the Queen's Diamond Jubilee. Gutted that he missed the 2012 Olympics.

In short, England has missed a little too much.

'I wouldn't worry about all of that,' Wales says as the two arrive back in Hampstead on the evening before the flight to America. 'You're back now, anyway.'

'I want to know where I was,' England says.

'We all do.'

'I want to know what happened to me.'

That night, exhaustion takes a hold of England. Every night so far, his body has simply refused to sleep. He knows that Wales and Scotland think it's because of this weird new paranoia he's got, and he agrees with them; but unlike them, he knows deep down that there's a legitimate reason to be on edge. Then again, most delusional people probably believe that.

But tonight, the sleep deprivation is too severe. He's unconscious moments after his head hits the pillow, and then all of reality shifts around him.

_'Sleeping means letting your guard down. Aren't going to make that little mistake again, are we?'_

_A knife traces a thin but deep line of blood across his bare chest and he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming._

_The red eyed demon watches him, almost seeming a little impressed, though it covers it well behind those malicious crimson eyes. 'I could give you hell and it won't make a difference, will it?'_

_It changes the angle of the knife as the blade reaches his abdomen, pointing the tip of the weapon against his bare skin and gently plunging it through the flesh. He lets out a groan of pain as the agony flares through his stomach, but shows no reaction other than this._

_The demon grins. It seems to almost tremble in anticipation. 'Thanks,' it says quietly. 'I like a challenge.'_

England's eyes fly open and he leaps out bed, quickly reaching for the dagger under his pillow. In this moment, he feels both at his strongest and at his weakest. He's ready. The adrenaline could keep him running and fighting for hours. He could get out of here. He has his weapon.

But he's absolutely terrified.

He can still feel that blade cutting into him, and when he lifts up his shirt, he can make out a thin white scar stretching across his chest and torso. It's faded and long since sealed up, but it definitely happened. He's not just having weird dreams. It really happened.

And there's more. Heaps of faded scars and old bruises are painted across his chest. Most aren't as big as the one he gained from that session with the demon that he dreamt about, but they still happened.

_I was... tortured_.

_Well, if that's not a legitimate reason for paranoia, I don't know what is._

His mind flashes back to the demonic eyed torturer, but his memory is already fading. He doesn't know who it was, but he now knows what to be afraid of.

England looks down at the knife in his hand, an uncomfortable realisation spreading through him. It's the same knife that was used to torture him. How did he come to be the owner of it? Did he steal it from his torturer? Why would he even want to keep it after what it was used for?

But he doesn't let go of it. He can't let go of the blade that sings of his own pain.

* * *

'Yeh're not bringing it with you,' Scotland says when he catches sight of the knife's hilt sticking out of England's jacket pocket as the latter walks into the kitchen for breakfast. 'I can't believe Ireland actually gave it back to yeh...'

'I need it,' England says.

'Good luck getting it past airport security,' Scotland taunts.

England rolls his eyes. 'Please. Ireland was planning on taking it on a plane to Dublin, which means he obviously thought it was possible. Anyway, we're not even going to a big airport. We're taking a private jet. You and I are the only passengers. Given my status, they'll let me take whatever I want.'

'I think yeh'll find yer current status is  _dead_  until everyone knows yeh're back,' Scotland retorts.

'Don't start,' Wales says tiredly.

'We're not starting,' England replies, and for a second it's as if five years haven't passed and this is just any old morning the brothers have to spend together.

'Sealand's coming round in a few days,' Wales says. 'You won't even be here for it. He comes round a lot more now.'

'I know,' England says, taking a bite of toast. He has a peculiar, withdrawn look on his face. 'Ireland told me.'

'We haven't told him yet,' Wales continues.

'Just as well,' Scotland mutters. 'The little one would probably blab the news to everyone.'

'Have you figured out what you're going to tell everyone?' Wales asks.

'Hmm?'

'The other G8 members are going to want explanations. They'll want to know where England's been for the last five years.'

Scotland sighs. 'We'll just tell 'em what we know. And hope that they don't go telling the rest of the world until we've at least figured more out.'

'You've gotten to know them better over the last five years,' England mutters. 'You should know by now that any secret you tell them will be all over the internet by tonight.'

'Yeah, I can see the title,' Wales chuckles. 'It'll read  _#EnglandLives._ Like when Sherlock came back.'

England stares at him. 'Hashtag? Sherlock?'

Scotland smacks his forehead. 'Yeh have missed way too much, little brother.'

* * *

Scotland is right. As they arrive in the airport, their bags are scanned with the same level of security as they would be if they were boarding a major plane and the elder nation is pleasantly surprised when nothing suspicious is detected in his younger brother's bag, or on his person either. England has left the dagger and any other possible weapons behind. Good.

England spends the entire flight in a state of unease, twisting his head round constantly to look around the tiny cabin he and Scotland are in. As the only passengers, Scotland's not sure why England is so conscious of someone else, other than the pilots and the staff, being on board with them.

'Something's really messed up yer head,' Scotland murmurs. 'Even more than before.'

'I know,' comes the quiet, almost resigned reply. 'I know better than anyone.'

Scotland sighs and leans back in his seat. 'Ireland reckons yeh might have been kidnapped. And something worse, too.'

'Something worse?'

'Please. We obviously know about the scars,' Scotland says. 'We're yer immediate family, so the hospital  _had_ to tell us. Wales decided to talk to a specialist. Apparently, the, uh, symptoms yeh're displaying are all signs of... post traumatic psychological stress and physical abuse.'

'And I was kept in the dark?' England says accusingly.

'We didn't know how to mention our suspicions to yeh,' Scotland mutters awkwardly. 'I mean, we were told that the amnesia could have been yer mind trying to...'

'Trying to what?'

'Trying to block out whatever dark shit happened to yeh.'

'You think I'm forcing myself to forget?'

'The specialist said that sometimes when someone goes through something traumatic, the mind sets up a defensive mechanism so that the person won't have to remember the pain-'

'I'm a nation,' England spits. 'We've  _all_ been through some dark shit. It's part of the job. What could possibly be worse for me than... than the Great Fire or the Blitz or-'

_Well, that torture was obviously part of whatever it was that happened to me._

Scotland looks so uncomfortable talking about it. And England doesn't truly want to discuss it with him anyway. He's already treading on thin ice, considering he managed to secretly disguise and smuggle in his dagger using magic (something Scotland definitely won't find out about if he can help it).

They arrive in a nice, comfortable hotel in Washington. There's a little fuss at the reception when England finds out that Scotland has only booked one room ('Ain't no way I'm letting yeh outta my sight.'), something the blonde isn't happy about at all ('You better have specified  _two_ beds, twat.'). The redhead doesn't seem fazed by the minor outburst and instructs his younger brother to stay put for the rest of the day.

'The first gathering won't be until tomorrow,' he says. 'I would suggest we go out and do something today, but to be honest, I can't be arsed walking around the yank's capital. Besides, we don't want anyone spotting yeh yet. I've still gotta figure out exactly how I'm gonna break the news to them.'

'I could just walk in with you at the beginning of the meeting,' England mutters moodily as he and Scotland get into the hotel elevator to take them to the fourth floor.

'Hell no. I've gotta warn 'em first. Yeh'd give them all heart attacks if yeh did that.'

'They won't believe you.'

'They will do once it's time for yeh to come in.'

As they exit the elevator on the fourth floor, England halts. A strange, uncomfortable tingling is spreading up his spine and he feels as if something is watching him. Glancing to his right, he spots an elegant framed mirror on the wall between rooms 406 and 407. Nothing out of the ordinary, of course, but England still tenses. He wishes his dagger was in his pocket and not in his bag, as it would be much easier to access. But Scotland can't know about it. And there's no reason to be paranoid anyway.

He's just imagining things.

* * *

'Yeh alright there, lad?' Scotland asks.

England jumps, and for quite a few reasons. The first being because he had completely zoned out on Scotland beforehand and had pretty much forgotten that his brother is even here. The second being the use of the word  _lad,_ which seems like an unfair thing to be called, as he  _is_  younger, but not by  _that_ much (they've both lived a long time, for crying out loud). The third being the softness in Scotland's voice (after all, Scotland's known for being gruff). The fourth being the actual question, and the concern it implies.

'Um. Fine?'

Scotland (who has already made himself at home on his bed in the room they're staying in), peers out through the door to the balcony, frowning at his brother. England is leaning against the railings, staring out at the city with a small frown of his own. He hasn't unpacked and doesn't seem to be planning on doing it, either. Almost like he's ready to leave at any minute if he needs to.

'Come on, now,' Scotland mutters. 'Just relax. Yeh'll see 'em tomorrow.'

Scotland genuinely believes that England is uneasy about reuniting with the other nations. When in reality, England finds that he's not overly concerned at all.

He's barely given it any thought, actually.

'Sealand,' England says rather unexpectedly.

'What 'bout him?'

'Ireland says he comes round more.'

'Yeah, he does. He has a bit more respect for the family now. Can be a little irritating, but he's a good kid, really.'

'Right.' England continues staring out into the distance.

Scotland rolls his eyes. 'Get in here and shut the door. It's November, for Christ sake. The breeze is pissing me off.'

'We're too high up,' England mutters.

Scotland raises his eyebrows. 'Oh, are yeh 'fraid of heights now?'

England decides not to mention that his reasoning is that he won't be able to escape as easily in an emergency.

'What time's the meeting tomorrow?' he asks as he steps inside the room and closes the balcony door.

'Ten,' Scotland replies. 'Thought we should arrive earlier though. We have to be careful 'bout who spots yeh. And yeh know yeh're gonna get bombarded with questions the minute they find out yeh're still alive.'

'Obviously. I'm going for a walk.'

'Hang on- what? No, yeh're bloody well not!'

But England's already heading towards the door. 'I won't be long.'

Scotland rises from his bed, striding over to his brother. 'Not on my watch.'

'Then don't watch.'

'Yeh're not just walking out into the city.'

'Who said I was leaving the hotel? I can walk around the inside of the building if I want. I need to clear my head.'

Scotland stands firmly in front of the door. 'Yeh'd run off at the first opportunity. That's all yeh've been wanting to do since yeh got back- arm yerself and run away. I'm not letting yeh go out alone.'

'Bloody hell, Scotland, it's not even dark yet,' England snaps. 'I am over a thousand years old. I've travelled across the entire world. I used to be a sodding _Empire_. Stop treating me like I'm an unstable twelve-year-old who can't look after himself and open the bloody door.'

Scotland swears and opens the door, glaring at his brother. 'Brat.'

'Twat,' England replies spitefully, stepping past the redhead and out into the hallway. Scotland shuts the door behind him, though England has the feeling that the minute he's turned a corner, Scotland will probably exit the room and start following him. As if England won't even know.

England heads towards the elevator. He has no actual plans on leaving the fourth floor, but he remembers that the mirror is next to it. As he gets closer, his heart begins to beat faster. Something in him feels uneasy about approaching ever closer to the mirror. But it's just an inanimate object. It's stupid to think that he should need to run away from it, and yet wish to investigate it at the same time.

It's just a bloody mirror.

Not interesting. Certainly not dangerous. Just a  _mirror._

England steps up to it and frowns at his reflection.

This is the first time he's had a proper look at himself since he got back. Actually fully examined his appearance. He appears more or less the same as he has always done- bright green eyes, tousled blonde hair, thick eyebrows. Just him.

But he's thinner. His hair is a little messier. His eyes have a more darkened edge to them. His expression looks... haunted. The eyebrows are the same, though. They're probably never going to change. That's something.

He almost looks younger in a way, actually. Wilder, more ready to run.

And now he's smiling.

Oh, wait. That's not right. He can't feel his mouth smiling. He can feel himself wearing his usual frown. But his reflection is smiling. In his reflection, his eyes are now blue. Very bright blue. Insanely blue. Like they're filled with electricity. Like they're  _glowing_.

Feeling jumpy and immensely uneasy, England blinks and his reflection is back to normal. He takes a step back and turns away to head back to his room. As he turns the next corner, he practically collides with Scotland.

'So you did follow,' England says.

Scotland glares at him. 'Of course I did, brat. Are yeh done now?'

England glances back at the mirror. It hangs on the wall, silent and still. 'Yes,' he answers quietly.

* * *

The night brings more terrors.

_He's looking up at the sky. It's black and cloudy. The air is cold. It's November and it's snowing. Why is it snowing?_

_'I told you, it's not snow.'_

_He's cold and wet and lying on a hard surface, his back pressed against the ground. The snowflakes are swirling above him and landing on his face. A couple get into his eyes, and they sting badly. The voice is right. It's not snow._

_The owner of the voice is standing over him. It's too dark to make out the figure, but even in the night shadows, England can still see those glowing, electric blue eyes._

_'What...?' he tries to say, but he can't talk properly. He can't_ breathe  _properly. There's water in his lungs. Or is it fire? He tries to cough but he's on his back and he can't move._

_The figure chuckles. 'This is what it was. This is what it will always be. Here, not there.'_

_England is drowning all over again. And the snow-but-not-snow keeps falling on him. Suffocating him. Making him realise exactly what this is. No. It can't be._

_'Not... real...' he manages to whisper. He silently begs what he says to be true._

_'It's just as real for you now as it is for us,' the figure says. 'You can feel it. It_ burns _.'_

England wakes up screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The way I have the story planned out, Sealand is going to play an important role later on. He's only been mentioned so far but I'm going to show flashbacks from the last five years- not just for England, but for what was happening to the other nations while he was away. Mainly focusing on people like America and Sealand.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


	4. Mysterious Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! You guys seem to really like this story (seriously?! Thanks!) so I have have brought an update for you. Enjoy!
> 
> Allons-y!

Neither England nor Scotland mention the episode the night before.

As the two of them sit down to eat the breakfast the hotel room service has provided, Scotland looks as if he's itching to ask about the nightmare England woke up screaming from. It really has been a while since something like that happened. A _long_ time.

'It's strange,' England says suddenly.

'What is?' Scotland asks.

'No one else seems to wonder about it. The snow.'

Scotland frowns. 'What snow?'

'It was snowing when I left,' England elaborates. 'On the fifth of November, 2010.'

'Freak weather,' Scotland mutters, remembering the news.

'But it was snowing when I came back, too. On the fifth of November, 2015.'

Scotland's eyes widen. England's right, after all. That is strange. Not just the fact that it never snows in November, but the fact that it snowed on the same night on two separate occasions, with exactly five years in between. The night England disappeared and the night he came back.

'Did this honestly not occur to you?' England asks.

'Sure, it was on the news and everything. People were marvelling at how it could happen exactly five years apart. But I was too overwhelmed on both occasions, funnily enough. The first time I thought yeh'd vanished forever. The second time I was in shock over the fact that yeh'd come back.'

'But also,' England continues. 'Fifth of November.'

'Yeah...?'

'It could have been any night. Any night of the year. And it was Bonfire Night. A national celebration. Doesn't that strike you as odd?'

He can see that Scotland's mind is at work here. It's obvious now. There's no way that any of this is down to coincidence. Something peculiar is at work.

'You don't think it's...' England pauses for a second, thinking through what he's going to say. 'You don't think it's... magic?'

Scotland scoffs. 'Yeah. Right.'

'How else would you explain it? Snow, at the beginning of November, happening twice on the _same_ night, five years in between. And the fact that I went missing?'

'Yeh think yer disappearance has something to do with magic?' Scotland sounds extremely sceptical.

'Why not?' England says defensively.

'Because,' Scotland replies, rolling his eyes. 'It's not possible.'

England looks furious. 'Oh. Are you pretending magic doesn't exist now, Scotland? Sod it, _you_ have magic! How can you forget that?'

'I'm not saying I've forgotten or I don't believe,' Scotland mutters. 'Far from it. I'm saying, there ain't enough magic in this world to pull something like that off. There are barely any nations who actually have magic-'

'Norway,' England says. 'Romania.'

'And do yeh think they had something to do with this?'

'No. But you're ruling this out too quickly. You have magic. So do Wales and Ireland. And, of course, me. Magic hasn't died out.'

'And none of us had anything to do with what happened to yeh,' Scotland says. 'None of us have enough power, anyway. I don't know how strong Norway and Romania are, but Ireland and Wales have barely got any left, and I can't do much more than them. _Yeh_ were always the best at magic. Yeh were always the strongest.'

'You think I did whatever it was to myself?' England asks.

'No. I just don't think this is to do with magic. Like I said, there ain't enough magic in this world.'

 _And what if it wasn't from this world?_ England thinks to himself, then frowns internally. Why the hell would he think that? What does that even mean?

* * *

 There's definitely something watching him.

Scotland senses nothing. He's too busy getting all flustered about collecting all his documents together for the G8. And about getting there on time. And about England in general.

'Yeh need to do what I tell yeh,' he says. 'I'll sort this all out.'

England only packs one thing for the G8. He slides his dagger into the pocket of his coat and hopes Scotland or anyone else won't notice. Something's watching him. Something is following him. England is ready to run at any given notice. He just needs one reason to do it and he will escape. But he can't. He's beginning to acknowledge the emotional consequences of his actions.

Despite his previous beliefs, his brothers obviously do care about him. Even if it's just a little bit. Otherwise, they wouldn't be trying to help him. And although they don't verbally reveal much, they imply pretty heavily that they were upset when England disappeared.

Who knows how they would react if he would to run away and ultimately disappear again?

They finally arrive at the building where the G8 meeting is taking place. England is nervous. Not because of his impending return into the other nations' lives. More to do with whatever's following him. He knows he's not just being paranoid. There's definitely something here. Something bad. Something just out of sight.

'Yeh should wait in here until I've spoken to the other nations about yeh,' Scotland suggests as he and England arrive on the second floor and Scotland motions over to what appears to be a library. 'Yeh could probably amuse yerself in there until I've had a chance to explain everything. They obviously won't believe a word I say but at least I'll have time to focus the conversation on yeh.'

England doesn't argue. He doesn't mind being alone in the library, and at least now he might be able to figure out exactly what it is that's following him around.

They're about half an hour earlier than they need to be and none of the other nations have shown up yet. Not even the host, America, although that's probably to be expected- he's usually the last one to show up. That probably hasn't changed in the five years England has been away...

_'I could give you hell and it won't make a difference, will it?'_

England frowns and places one hand over his scarred chest and the other over the pocket he's stored his knife in. The words have been echoing inside his head since the first bad dream, back when he first realised he'd been tortured at some point. He sighs and walks around the library for a while, and is dismayed to find that most of the room's contents are just files on previous meetings in this building and there aren't actually that many books.

There is, however, a mirror. It's not as fancy as the golden framed one on the fourth floor of the hotel, but this one is bigger, with a dark wooden frame. England tenses up when he sees his reflection glaring back warily. He steps closer, looking directly into his own eyes. Green, like they're meant to be. The frown's there too. Good.

_Maybe I'm just going crazy. Crazier than I already was. I mean, they've always called me insane. Maybe they're right. Perhaps I truly am._

It would explain why he's hearing voices inside his head and why he's hallucinating. But something terrible did happen to him. The scars, the knife, the dreams... they're all proof.

'Miss us?' says his reflection casually.

England stares at the warped image of himself. Those eyes of his, now electric blue again, seem to sparkle.

'No,' he says, figuring that this is probably the best answer to give.

The reflection giggles. 'Oh well.'

In an instant, the glass of the mirror is shrouded in darkness. It's like looking into a rectangle of a pitch black void. England takes a step back in shock, no longer able to see a reflection of himself or anything else in the room. Black smoke begins to billow from the edges of the mirror, seeping out of the glass and into the air. England immediately reaches into his pocket for his knife but it's already too late. A cloud of black smoke erupts from the mirror and crashes into England. It's definitely as solid substance, despite appearances.

England topples over and crashes to the ground, quickly slashing with his knife in an effort to protect himself. The smoke swirls above his head, emitting a screeching noise that sounds almost like a demonic cackle. From the waves of darkness, the creature, whatever the hell it is, seems to look back with two ruby orbs, practically glowing in contrast to the black smoke. With one last hissing chuckle, the creature throws itself forwards with furious pace, heading towards the door to the library and leaving England behind, still lying on the ground with his knife out.

A loud crashing noise tells England that the creature has smashed its way through the doors and has been released from the room. He quickly pushes himself to his feet and then doubles over in pain. He feels winded- there is a massive bruise forming all over his chest from where that creature slammed into him. Whatever it is, its powerful. As he looks down, he can see the suit and the shirt he's wearing have slices as if tiny blades have been raked across them. There are even spots of blood here and there. Somehow the smoke has a sharp edge to it, making the creature all the more dangerous.

The door has been completely blasted off its hinges and the creature is nowhere to be seen. But England's certain of one thing- just like all the other instinctive things he's been certain of since he came back.

It's heading for the other countries.

* * *

 Scotland wasn't joking when he told England that he understood why the latter always hated world meetings so much.

He's only being doing this for five years but he's already so sick of the conferences, the business trips and all the other duties he had to start fulfilling when his younger brother went missing. It's not so much because of how _tiring_ everything is (that's a whole different matter). It's more to do with how frustrating it is to have to engage in debates with a load of people who _never listen._

Only seven people to deal with today, though. Seven people and a paranoid, delusional, bordering on dangerous younger brother.

Fun.

He is correct in thinking that he and England were the first to arrive here. Germany and Italy show up a mere ten minutes afterwards and the rest file in over the next few minutes. Even America shows up relatively on time. They all greet each other with varying levels of enthusiasm, ranging from Italy's bubbly nature to Canada's attempts to get anyone to even notice him.

'At least I might not have to bother with these bloody meetings anymore,' Scotland mutters.

'You going somewhere, dude?' America asks, taking as seat next to the redhead. The blonde is comfortably munching away on a burger and seems oblivious (surprise, surprise) to the reluctance to be here that most of the nations are rather prominently displaying.

'I've, er, got good news. Sort of...' Scotland replies. Yeah, England's return definitely counts as good news. On the other hand, they still have no suitable explanation for what even happened. And of course, the scars and the paranoia. Should Scotland mention those parts to the other nations?

He waits a short while until Germany has managed to get everyone to shut up.

'If we could all settle down, that would be appreciated.' Germany already looks irritated. It's no wonder by this point. 'Is there anything anyone wishes to say before we begin?'

'Yeah, I got something,' Scotland says, getting to his feet. Everyone stares at him in confusion. Normally, Scotland stays sulking in his chair throughout these affairs and only ever offers narcissistic comments. Like an even more pessimistic, slightly less active version of England.

'Will it take long?' Germany asks.

'Probably, yeah. It's, uh... well, it's a bit unexpected.'

Hardly any of them are paying attention. America is still munching on his burger and is chatting away to Japan. Italy is happily telling a story to France and Russia just smiles innocently.

Scotland clears his throat. 'Listen, yeh idiots, I didn't fly all the way over here with a living, walking, improbable hazard to discuss the bloody weather.'

'Still raining where you live, I would imagine,' France says with a chuckle.

Scotland rolls his eyes. He does this even more than usual during meetings with other nations. 'It's important and yeh all better start listening because I ain't repeating myself. I thought it would be better if I warned yeh all first.'

'Warn us about what?' Canada says in a whisper. Nobody hears him.

Scotland scratches the back of his head. Most of the others have at least acknowledged that he is talking now, which is something. 'So, a situation arose just over a week ago that we didn't see comin'. And, well, it's pretty surprising.'

They're listening now. All of them. Good.

'We're not sure how or why it even happened in the first place, but-'

A loud crash resonates from somewhere downstairs, on the second floor by the sound of it.

'Bloody hell,' Scotland curses. What the hell is England doing down there? He considers venturing downstairs to see what his little brother has gotten up to but the crash is accompanied by a shrieking noise which seems to grow louder and louder as the source gets closer to the meeting room.

'What the hell is that?' Germany exclaims, getting to his feet in shock.

America springs to his feet too, staring wide-eyed at the door. 'Dude, it sounds like a frickin' ghost!'

The piercing noise reaches the door and a new explosion rips through the air as the nations quickly dive under the table to escape the debris shooting in every direction. Peering out from behind a chair, Scotland's eyes widen as he catches sight of a black smoky mass with glowing red slits for eyes hovering in the massive whole in the wall where the door once stood.

Italy screams and many of the others cry out in shock too. 'What is that thing?' France yells.

Japan's eyes are wide in horror. 'I- I do not know-'

The creature gives a sort of hissing cackle and advances into the room.

The nations crawl out from their hiding spots and back away against the far wall, too shocked to do anything else. The creature's movements radiate a menacing intention as it progresses into the room, still hissing in anticipation. It still resembles nothing more than a black cloud, yet it is obviously powerful- after all, it completely blew the door apart.

As much as Scotland doesn't want to admit it, this is definitely some sort of dark magic.

And England...?

The only person with magic powerful enough to conjure something like this is England. Did he do this? If so, why? And if that isn't the case (which Scotland sincerely hopes so), then who did conjure it? And that explosion they heard before, the one downstairs, came from where England is right now. Which means this creature must have confronted him. This creature might have _done_ something to him.

'What a strange creature,' Russia says calmly, but even he isn't smiling.

'Guys! Someone call 911!' America squeaks in a high pitched voice.

'Whatever the hell this thing is, the humans won't be able to help,' Scotland mutters, eyeing the creature's every move. The entity is approaching slowly, almost as if it's analysing the nations before whatever it has planned next.

'Germany- Germany, what do we do?' Italy squeals fearfully.

'We- we-' Germany is at a loss for words.

'Is it planning an attack of some kind?' Japan asks.

'It would appear so,' Russia says.

'We- we outnumber it, though,' France says in a shaky voice. 'That's something...'

'Dude, it just blew a frickin' whole in the wall!'

'We still don't even know what it is,' Canada whispers, too anxious about the situation to even care about whether anyone heard him.

'We just need to remain calm and formulate a strategy to... remove it,' Germany says.

Scotland bites his lip. He has magic, of course. More than Ireland and Wales. Nowhere near as much as England. There's no way he would be able to expel this creature with his own abilities. If England were to help him, perhaps...

But how to get to his brother? There's a large, menacing, unknown entity blocking his only route.

'Germany-san is right,' Japan says. 'There is no use in us panicking.'

The creature reaches the centre of the room, hovering over the table. It surveys the nations, all pressed against the wall opposite it, and seems to contemplate its next move.

'It's gonna attack us,' Scotland warns the others. 'We're gonna have to try and run or something.'

'Heroes don't-'

'Really not a good time to be spouting yer hero shite, America,' Scotland says. 'This thing is obviously dangerous. 'If yeh go up against this thing, yeh're probably not gonna be standin' by the end.'

America is trembling but seems to cling onto what he was trying to say. 'But we gotta do something about it...'

The creature's form shifts slightly and its ruby orbs seem to fix on America. The nation gulps and takes a step to the side, heading towards the corner of the room and away from the other nations. The creature follows him slowly.

'Don't,' Scotland calls out. 'Don't let it single you off.'

'It's following me,' America panics.

'America!' Canada cries out in as loud a voice as he can muster.

The entity lunges forwards and America quickly dives out the way. With an almighty crash, the creature breaks through the wall and fills the room with dust and even more debris. Instead of falling down to the ground below, the creature dives back into the room and this time targets the rest of the nations, who stand huddled in a group, staring is shock. They quickly scatter in panic and the entity gives chase, marking different targets as new victims every few seconds.

Each nation tries heading for the door but the creature gets there first. The countries stand, frozen in shock and fear as the entity lets out another hissing laugh before it suddenly tenses and quietens. Then it lets out a piercing shriek and dissolves into the air, the darkness of its mass lightening into nothing and revealing a figure standing behind it, wielding a knife and in a fighting stance, the blade pointing into the spot where the creature once existed.

Scotland lets himself breathe a sigh of relief for two reasons. One, England's alright (though his shirt's torn and there appears to be spots of blood on his clothing) and two, the creature is dead. On the other hand, it looks like England managed to sneak his knife with him after all.

Also, this really isn't how Scotland was planning to reintroduce England to the other nations. These last few minutes have been shocking enough without them all embracing the fact that someone has seemingly returned from the dead (well, America was sort of right after all about a ghost being here)...

There aren't any shocked screams or anything. The other nations simply stare with wide eyes at the spot where an other worldly creature just dissipated, the same spot that is now being occupied by a long lost country.

But England isn't looking back at them. He holds out his knife and glares at Scotland. 'Told you I'd need this.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England really knows how to make an entrance.
> 
> So, I haven't finished writing the next chapter, but I should be done soon. I know this doesn't really count as a reunion chapter because Iggy only shows up right at the very end and the other countries are in shock. So, the talking will commence in the next chapter! XD
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


	5. Fearful Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys!
> 
> I'm afraid it's not the joyful reunion you may have been expecting between England and his fellow nations. Mostly because everyone's in shock and the day England openly and willingly displays outward affection for so many other nations will be the day it starts snowing in Hell. XD
> 
> Allons-y!

Scotland doesn't look happy at all.

Sure, England can understand why. The redhead and the rest of the G8 were just attacked by a powerful, violent black cloud and now seven of them are staring at someone they thought was dead. This definitely isn't how Scotland wanted this to play out.

England sighs and lowers the blade slightly. He may have destroyed the entity but that doesn't mean he's not still on alert. There might be more. Something else might try and attack them. After the peculiar events of today, he's sure he's not the only one who's convinced that anything could happen.

Scotland closes his eyes briefly. 'Yeh shouldn't have brought that.'

'If I hadn't, that thing would still be here,' England replies coolly, still refusing to put the blade away. 'Believe me now?'

''Bout what?'

'My earlier theory. Regarding magic.'

Scotland winces. 'That thing, whatever it was... was definitely a creature of magic, I'll admit to that. Whether it's got anything to do with why yeh disappeared in the first place-'

'England?'

Finally, one of the other nations is able to speak. It's Germany, voicing the shocked thought that must be going through the heads of all the others too.

England suddenly feels a little awkward at the entrance he made. So much for being a dignified gentleman- he just wildly burst in here with a dagger and seemingly destroyed some dark magical entity, and so far hasn't offered any explanation. Not that he has one regarding the creature. All he can say with certainty is that it is definitely a creature of dark magic.

It's been five years since he's seen any of them, though with his current amnesia, for him it's technically only been a few weeks. But he can feel how much time has passed... especially with those new memories he's rewarded with in his dreams...

Even Russia looks surprised (and a little fascinated). 'How incredible. England has been resurrected.'

'I'd have to have been dead in the first place for that to be true,' England remarks.

'But... how...?' Japan breathes, eyes wider than England has ever seen them.

'So... yeah.' Scotland sounds even more awkward than England feels. 'That's the, er, surprise I was talking 'bout earlier.'

'No way...'

'That's impossible...'

'You're _dead...'_

'Isn't anyone even a little curious about that creature?' England mutters.

'Iggy?' Somehow, America's voice is quieter than it has ever been before.

'Five years, and not once did you think that your continuation to use that infernal nickname would tarnish my memory?' England replies haughtily, but he is secretly pleased. America is still the same as before- or so it seems so far, anyway.

The blue eyed nation isn't smiling or anything- he's in too much shock for that, just like the others. No one is rushing forwards to greet England or anything, but the Brit isn't expecting it to happen, and in all honesty, his head is still pretty wrapped up on the encounter with the entity. Not to mention the fact that the creature wounded him- not badly, but he's aware of the cuts on his chest and blood on his shirt.

Scotland seems to notice it now. 'Yeh're wounded.'

'Yeah. That thing got me downstairs. Knocked me over and came up here. I had to run after it.'

'Where did it come from?'

'The mirror.'

'What mirror?'

'The one in the library downstairs. It kind of just emerged from the glass.' England strides over to the table and pulls out a chair for him to sit on. He's feeling a little light headed, probably from the blood loss. As he glances around the room, he can see the damage properly; there are bits of rubble here and there from the blasted door and the hole in the wall. Some pedestrians on the street below have probably called the emergency services by now. The humans will probably be here fairly soon.

'They won't believe us. Someone should come up with an alibi,' England points out.

'What?' Scotland says.

'I mean, no one's going to believe a homicidal cloud caused the damage. Probably best to say it was a gas leak.'

Germany seems to regain a little composure from the initial shock. 'I- ja. That would a sensible option.'

'Or you could say it was a terrorist attack. Then again, that would cause an awful lot of fuss. And to be honest,' England says, looking at the other nations carefully, 'I'm sure we've all had enough fuss for one day, don't you?'

* * *

'Where 'ave you been?'

England stiffens and glances up. France stands before him with a completely serious expression and no hint of humour or a sneer in his tone. The frog honestly looked like he was going to have a heart attack back in the meeting room when England showed up. Actually, most of the G8 looked like that. And they're still in shock right now.

'Bit of a mystery,' England says carefully. He remembers how Scotland told him that it would be best if he let the elder do the explaining.

'We've got all day,' France replies shortly. Because of the 'gas leak', the nations have called off the meeting for the day and have all retreated to one of America's city houses for the big explanation. England is regretting this already.

'Well...'

'He doesn't remember,' Scotland says, casually lighting a cigarette. America doesn't seem to mind him smoking in his house. To be honest, America hasn't actually said anything since he suggested they all go to his house.

Japan looks confused. 'What do you mean?'

England resists the urge to roll his eyes at the thought of his amnesia story being explained _again._ First, he had to tell his brothers. Then the Prime Minister. Then the Royal Family. Now these other nations. Oh well, at least Scotland's doing the talking.

'He's lost five years of his memory,' Scotland continues. 'Hasn't got a clue what happened to him durin' that time.'

'Amnesia?' Germany asks.

England nods but doesn't say anything.

'He showed up again exactly five years after he disappeared. _Exactly_ five years- on the Bonfire Night, just like last time.'

'Whereabouts?'

'The Thames.'

'The river?' Italy says curiously.

'Aye,' Scotland replies. 'He climbed out and phoned Wales, then collapsed. He had hypothermia and physical exhaustion. He spent a few days in hospital.'

'And you didn't think to contact us about this?' France asks.

'Would any of yeh have believed us?' Scotland says. 'We thought we should wait until England had recovered and then let him come along to the G8 so yeh could see for yerselves.'

 _Would any of you have cared?_ England adds silently.

'But... what about that thing?' America pipes up. 'That monster?'

 _Finally,_ England thinks, _someone is asking the right questions._ He's a little surprised that it's America. 'Dark magic,' he answers. 'It's the only possible explanation.'

A few of the countries shift uncomfortably in their spots around the room, avoiding eye contact.

England scowls. 'Oh, come on. I disappear on a night with freak weather, reappear _exactly_ five years later on a night with the same freak weather in the exact same spot I vanished in to begin with- _yes,_ I fell in the river,' he adds, glaring at France who has raised his eyebrows. 'And then some unknown entity emerges from a _mirror_ of all things and tries to attack us all. You can't honestly still deny the existence of magic by this point.'

'I suppose yeh used magic to bring that ruddy knife with yeh,' Scotland mutters.

England waves his hand in dismissal. 'Simple concealment charm. Easy. But that creature... that would have taken powerful magic to conjure.'

'Yeh think it was conjured, then?' Scotland asks.

England nods. 'It must have been. It's a creature of dark magic- not really alive. It wasn't even truly sentient; merely a creation of powerful conjuring. Someone sent it after m- us.'

Japan isn't fooled my England's hasty correction. 'You think that thing was sent after you, England-san?'

'It was perfectly happy attacking the rest of us too,' Germany points out.

'It was following me to begin with,' England says, feeling a little resigned. He might as well tell them a little bit more of what he's figured out so far. 'But it was curious about the rest of you, too.'

'Curious? It tried to kill us!' France says.

'I wonder how it is that England knows so much about it,' Russia says calmly, watching England very carefully with clear violet eyes.

England shivers slightly under the gaze. 'It just makes sense. To me, anyway.'

'But yeh knew, didn't yeh? Sort of, anyway,' Scotland says quietly.

'What?'

'Yeh thought something was following yeh 'round. And yeh were really uneasy 'bout that mirror in the hotel, too. Another one of yer funny feelings, England? Is this one instinctive too?'

England honestly feels like hitting his brother. Scotland is revealing way too much to the other nations. He doesn't want them knowing about the paranoia or the wounds or the dreams...

Then again, Scotland knows barely anything about the dreams himself.

England rises from his chair. He's getting too restless just sitting around and he's pretty sure that entity wasn't the only thing that will try and find him. 'Whoever conjured and sent that thing will probably try again,' he says. 'They... clearly want something.'

'They want yeh,' Scotland amends, ignoring England's furious look. 'That's obvious enough. Would explain why yeh're so paranoid.'

'Shut up,' England hisses.

'Yeh want to know what I think?' Scotland asks.

'Not really,' England snaps.

'I think that whoever sent that thing is the one responsible for yer disappearance in the first place,' the redhead says confidently. 'After all, Ireland reckons yeh might have been kidnapped and-'

'Oh, I bet you and Ireland and Wales have had lots of charming little talks behind my back.'

'Um...?' Canada says awkwardly, and a few other nations cough uncomfortably. It would appear that the two British nations are so caught up in their debate that they've forgotten about everyone else in the room.

England composes himself quickly. 'Look, I don't know who sent that thing. I don't know why I had a feeling that it was following me beforehand. I just _did_. And I don't know what happened to me over the last five years, but...' he trails off as a small shudder passes over him. Watching him from the corner of the room are a pair of red eyes. Not the same as the ruby ones of the entity, but a menacing shade of crimson. The eyes of the demon in his nightmares.

 _Not real,_ England quickly reassures himself. No one else can see it. Then again, there are plenty of things that England can see but others can't. But Scotland can generally see everything England can, and he's not reacting. _Not real, not real._

'England?' Canada prompts.

'I- nothing.' England turns away from the crimson eyes and decides he's had enough of this for one day.

* * *

Aside from every other crazy, irregular thing that's happened today, he realises he is slightly fazed by another thing he never thought he would even care about. He understands why no one ran to greet him. There were all in shock, even when they'd all left the meeting building. They had questions, sure, but...

Were they even pleased to see him?

England doesn't want people freaking out over his return and, God forbid, hugging him. Wales tried hugging him, a few days after he returned, back when he was still in hospital. It resulted in Wales pinned down to the floor. England couldn't even help it- it was an instinctive reaction. As soon as the arms closed around him, he felt trapped.

No one in the G8 has tried hugging him, thankfully. England is grateful for that... and at the same time, he's bothered. Surely someone should have tried, or shown a little more enthusiasm... surely America...

He's standing outside now. He told the others he needed a breather, but Scotland wouldn't let him go alone, so he's stuck with his elder brother once again. The other nations have remained indoors, probably discussing this new development.

'Just as well we let 'em think,' Scotland says. 'They're all in shock.'

'That creature was the product of some very powerful magic,' England murmurs. 'Even more so than I realised before.'

'Oh?'

'It takes an incredible amount of power to make something magical visible to others,' England says. 'I mean, it's easy for you and I to view the supernatural- we have the Sight. But they don't. That's why they never believed in magic. Until now, anyway. Because they saw that thing, just like we did. For something magical to become visible to those who don't have the Sight, an enormous amount of power must have been used.'

Scotland frowns. 'Yeh've got a point. But who could've-?'

'I don't know. But you're right,' England admits with a sigh. 'Whoever sent that creature has definitely got something to do with my disappearance.'

'Are yeh remembering?'

'I...' England is beginning to grow tired of lying.

'Yeh are, aren't yeh? But yeh won't tell me or Wales or Ireland 'bout it.'

'I'm not sure what to say. I don't know where I was or who took me. But I remember... ending up somewhere. And I remember voices.'

 _Eyes, too,_ he adds in his head. _Two pairs. One crimson, the other electric blue. Who are they?_

Scotland puts his hand on his brother's shoulder. 'England, yeh need to tell us _everything_ yeh know. It's the only way any of us are gonna help yeh.'

 _But do I even want your help?_ England thinks before he can stop himself.

They're standing in the back garden of America's house. It's evening now, and England has spent most of the day trying to avoid the other nations. He doesn't want their questions, not when he's got so many of his own as it is. There's something about the way their eyes watch him that make him uneasy. There's something about being around people in general that unnerves him, including his brothers. Scotland's been the one explaining everything. Scotland's the one handling the situation.

'… you're not gonna believe who... wait- you already knew? How? Oh, he told you? Isn't it great, though? You were right, dude...'

America emerges from the back door to the house, stepping out into the garden without spotting Scotland or England. He's got his phone pressed to his ear and has a smile on his face.

'Oi, yank! Yeh ain't meant to be tellin' anyone 'bout England yet!' Scotland snaps and America jumps, almost dropping his phone.

'No, it's okay, don't worry,' he protests, then addresses the person on the other end. 'I'll talk to ya later, dude. Bye!'

'We don't want anyone other than the G8 knowin' right now,' Scotland adds angrily as America ends the call.

'Chill, he already knew,' America says cheerfully.

'Who did?' England demands.

'Your brother. Sealand.'

Scotland relaxes. 'Wales must've told him. I would have waited a little longer until we've figured everythin' out but-' His phone begins to ring and he quickly swipes it out of his pocket. 'Speak of the devil,' he mutters a he identifies the caller ID. 'Hey, Wales... Yeah, I told 'em. Didn't really go to plan. Long story... No, he's fine. Don't worry. I'm fine too, by the way, thanks for askin'... Yeah, I heard... Yeah, uh...' he shoots England and awkward look and the other Brit quickly establishes that whatever Scotland wants to say to Wales, he doesn't want England to hear.

'Anyway, I guess I should...' Scotland glances between America and England with a peculiar, wary, almost reluctant expression, still on the phone to Wales. '… give yeh both some space...'

England is bemused. Scotland giving him space? That's new, especially since Scotland's still convinced that England is going to run away at any minute. England is about to point this out when his brother turns on his heel and disappears inside the house, leaving the remaining Brit with America.

'You were on the phone to Sealand?' England inquires after a few moments of silence.

America nods. 'Yep. Turns out he already knew you were back.'

'I didn't realise you knew him.'

'We're friends,' America replies with a smile. 'The little guy's pretty cool.'

'Right.' England stares off into space for a second before his eyes fix on America again. A shiver runs through his body and he subconsciously shuffles uneasily. Nothing today is making sense. He shouldn't be feeling like this. So ready to run, so cautious and on guard just faced with someone like America.

America is still smiling, but there's a lot withheld behind it. That much is clear. He looks kind of nervous himself, shifting slightly from foot to foot. 'You- uh... you're alive.'

'Last time I checked, yes. And not a zombie, before you ask.'

America's eyes are shining, though it seems very curious to England. Not happily shining. Well, he does seem happy, but more the kind of glimmering you'd see if the eyes were filled with tears. _If_ , of course. There's no way America _is_ crying. But there is a very strange sense of bundled up, contrasting emotions behind those blue eyes.

And then he's holding out his arms and stepping forward for a hug, and all England can see is the memory of the crimson eyes and the chains wrapped around his body and the knife slicing into his skin, and he quickly takes an alarmed step back, waves of panic sweeping over him.

America freezes, arms still held out for the hug. England stands still for a second too, still trying to grasp reality.

'Sorry,' he says. 'I... I don't do the hugging thing anymore.' And he is so genuinely sorry, because he can see that crushed look that America tries to hide and he feels so guilty because of it.

America gives a pained smile. 'You weren't really much for it to begin with.'

'That's not true. I used to hug you quite a lot.' And by that, he of course means back when America was a child.

America laughs. It's shaky and uncoordinated. 'Sure, dude. It's cool. So, uh, you remember nothing, huh?'

'Bits and pieces. Nothing helpful.' England is really starting to feel cold now. Something about this feels very wrong. Since when does talking to America feel so wrong? Since when does being in his presence feel so wrong?

'But, ya know, this is great, dude,' America quickly puts in with that forced optimistic voice, almost like he's trying to hold himself together. 'You can start coming to meetings again and you can catch up on all the awesome shows you missed and the last _Harry Potter_ movie and I totally gotta show you _The Hunger Games_ and _The Hobbit_ movies and you've missed five of my birthday parties and I know you never really liked coming to them but you did anyway and-'

'I get the picture,' England says hastily, because America almost seems to be on the verge of a hysterical breakdown if he starts speaking any faster. 'Perhaps we should go back inside and...' _And calm down quite a lot._ '… and, um, sit down.'

America gives another nervous laugh. 'Yeah, sure. That makes sense.'

England breathes a sigh of relief. There's not a single part of him that wants to go back in the house. There's something so wrong about being here with the other nations, especially now he has proof that something's after him. But he has to go back inside, because otherwise Scotland and the others will come and look for him.

* * *

_He was right,_ America thinks. _He was right about England._

America doesn't want to go back to the others inside his own home. But he's not sure he wants to stay out here, alone with England, either. Because this nation, standing in front of him, is England- but he's also not.

He's all... different. Wild and unpredictable, and far too accepting of the idea of a supernatural force wanting him dead. America doesn't understand it at all, and it frightens him. Is this even the same England? Is it truly him at all?

England is supposed to be _dead_. That's the conclusion everyone came to. They spent three years searching and the remaining two coming to terms with the fact that he was never coming back. The other nations grew to accept it. And now he's suddenly appeared again, like a bomb's been dropped directly into their lives. To top it off, his arrival is accompanied by a powerful entity seeking to destroy him and those around him.

America is happy. Or at least, he wants to be happy. Because he remembers something that someone said to him a while ago, something that kept him hoping even when everyone else gave up.

_'He's not dead, you know. They're all wrong.'_

America remembers how badly he wanted it to be true. And now it is. But it's like a dream. First it was a nightmare, because of that monster that tried to kill him and the other countries. Now it's a good dream because England is back.

But what's most unnerving is the look of... _fear_ in England's eyes. It's not apparent most of the time. He remained quite cool and aloof whilst conversing with the other nations. All calm and collected in the chaos. Completely in control of his own emotions.

But not when his eyes meet with America's.

Each and every time America and England have made eye contact, England's mask slips. He looks like prey, caught in a trap, like he believes America is the predator. The first time they properly looked at each other, England looked like he wanted to run. Even now, after their little chat, something is off. Like England is seeing something in America that isn't even there.

America watches as England looks around with wary eyes briefly and rests his hand over the pocket that has the knife before entering the house. And the younger nation knows something is very, very wrong with England.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said, I would imagine this isn't quite the reunion you were expecting. I would once again draw to attention the fact that most of the nations are still in shock and England clearly does not react well to physical contact, if that helps explain it. Despite England's negative thoughts, the nations are relieved to see him again, in their own little ways. They just haven't had a chance to show it yet. Give it time.
> 
> All will be explained in due time about the current dynamics between America and England. Let's just say it's complicated for now, and leave it at that. :P
> 
> Thinking of doing some more flashbacks in the next chapter. I haven't written it out yet, so we'll see... ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


	6. Subtle Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should be asleep, but when the inspiration comes for a chapter, never put it off. The writer's block could hit at any time, so make the most of the ideas in your head! (And there's some solid advice right there!)
> 
> Anyway, angsty stuff. Ish. Not too bad. Just England and his self-deprecating mind. Occasionally speaking his mind. He's beginning to acknowledge some of his own personal issues now, not just the paranoia and whatnot.
> 
> Anyway, allons-y!

_'Remember, remember...'_

_England stirs. He's conscious of the burning in his chest once more. It hasn't died down since he was last awake, when he washed up on the shores of the Thames and that blue eyed figure stood above him, laughing and speaking in riddles._

_'Don't want to miss your special day, do you?' the voice coos. It's the same voice that was taunting him before. 'No, no, no...'_

_Special day?_

_England's eyes open, only for them to sting and burn and tear up immediately. He's damaged them somehow._

_'Silly,' the voice giggles._

_England tried to reach with his hands to rub his eyes in an effort to clean them up, but his arms won't move. They're being held down by something, probably ropes. And so are his legs. He tries to open his eyes again but they're too blurry and painful to make out anything and he shuts them again quickly, wishing he could just somehow wipe them..._

_'Where am I?' he croaks._

_'You know where,' the voice replies. 'Just like how you know it's not snow. It's all different here.'_

_'Let me... go...'_

_The voice laughs again. 'And where will you go? How will you see?'_

_'Who... who are you...?'_

_All of a sudden, his eyelids are being prised open by nimble fingers and the stinging grows ever so intense. He's being forced to look at something but everything is grey and unfocused. Everything, that is, except for those eyes. Electric blue. Definitely the same person who found him by the river._

_The eyes are getting bigger and going off to the side. The person is leaning down to whisper something in his ear._

_'The thing about snow,' the voice says, 'is that it's cold. But it wasn't cold, was it? What you felt burnt. That's how you know it's not snow.'_

_England grits his teeth. This all has to be a nightmare. None of it can be real. He'll wake up soon and... and..._

_'Remember, remember,' the voice whispers._

* * *

'Are yeh even listenin'?'

England's eyes snap open. He's on his feet in an instant, more alert than ever at the discovery of several pairs of eyes fixed on him.

'Sit down,' Scotland mutters.

The other nations blink in confusion as England's eyes scan each and every one of them carefully before settling back down in his chair. No one laughs like they usually would if one among them was startled awake.

'Still with us?' Scotland demands.

England glares at him. 'Yes.'

'Good. Then try not to doze off in the middle of a ruddy meetin', dummy.'

England has to restrain himself from snapping back. He's more curious about the dream, to be honest.

It wasn't as bad as the other dreams he's been having. Granted, that burning pain in his chest was present, but it was endurable. He wasn't being tortured in it- apart from when his stinging eyes were forced open. No, the only thing he is concerned about are the mind games. And who that blue eyed person was.

It's the next day and the G8 are actually trying to hold the meeting, speaking about the things they were meant to discuss. As Scotland has the notes and knows considerably more about the current state of the British economy, England sits in a chair between him and France and has spent most of the meeting trying to focus. But he can't, not while he's trying to figure everything out. Especially not now he's had another dream.

And he especially can't focus because the demon is watching him from the other side of the room.

Its crimson eyes are fixed on him, almost hungrily. England has long since accepted that it probably is only a figment of his imagination, because no one else is acknowledging its presence. If it were a creature of magic, Scotland would see it, but he's acting like it's not there too. So it can't be real.

With that mentality, England tried to pretend it's not there. But he doesn't believe it. He can see those crimson eyes glowing. They're captivating. Not in a beautiful way, but in the kind of hypnotic way that holds your gaze and blocks out everything else. The rest of the demon seems to be bathed in shadows. All England can see are the eyes.

England tries to ignore it and listen to the other countries when they speak. If it's not real, it can't hurt him. And if it is real, he'll deal with it.

'You've certainly changed,' says the voice beside him, and England turns his head to see France watching him.

'So have you.'

'No, I 'aven't.'

'Yes you have. You've barely said anything since I came back. You haven't even insulted me yet.'

France sighs, looking exasperated. 'Oh, Angleterre, aren't you supposed to be smart? Of course I 'aven't. I'm too surprised to see you. We all thought you were dead.'

'Yeah, bad luck there. Do you celebrate the fifth of November too, now? I would imagine you hold a party on that day every year in commemoration of the day you finally had to stop putting up with me-'

'Don't be so ridiculous,' France replies.

'- and you probably invite the whole world round to celebrate with you. No wonder you're all so awkward around me now,' England finishes, almost relieved that he actually managed to get the words out. As much as he hates to admit it, the fact that the world only spent three years searching for him and they don't even seem that happy to see him does bother him. He knows that France and the others despise him, but surely... surely they could have put that aside...

He was being tortured somewhere far away and they had all given up on him.

France is silent for a moment, then he says. 'Perhaps I was wrong. Maybe you are the same as before.'

'And what's that supposed to mean?' England growls.

'Still as stubborn and hopeless as ever,' Scotland puts in. 'Now shut it.'

England folds his arms and looks up at Japan, who is currently standing at the projection board and giving his speech. No one else appears to have heard the little exchange between England and France except Scotland. England is grateful for that- he doesn't want anyone figuring out how fazed he is by the whole thing.

'Perhaps you should stop glaring at young Amérique,' France says.

'I'm not.'

France smirks. 'It seems you are still determined to disagree with me on everything. At least that 'asn't changed.'

'Shut it, frog. I'm not glaring at him.'

'Oh, but you are,' France says. 'Are you resuming a feud with 'im like you are with me?'

'That's none of your concern,' England snaps. He doesn't want to resume any feud. He just wants the demon to leave him alone. As far as he's concerned, he's barely acknowledged America or any of the other nations. He doesn't want to make eye contact with them. They'll probably take one look at him and classify him as deranged like his brothers have done.

'Angleterre-' France begins to say something else but England rises to his feet. The Brit glances back at the demon one last time, then leaves the room.

_It's better this way,_ England thinks to himself. _The demon's not real. It can't be. And I can't be there. Not with them. They let me go. They gave up on me._

_I'm not one of them anymore._

_'You're one of_ us,' whispers the voice inside his head.

* * *

The eyes follow him everywhere. Each reflection seems to contain them now.

England knows that Scotland will be following him. He no longer cares, however. He just keeps his head down and strides through the streets of Washington, his coat wrapped tightly around him and his knife still tucked into his pocket. The others probably noticed him leaving, but so what? He's been gone for five years; he can disappear for a few hours more.

'Dude, seriously? You're just gonna walk out on us like that? Man, Iggy, you never used to skive meetings!'

Barely managing to conceal practically jumping out of his skin, England takes a deep breath in and out and turns around.

America appears to be fairly cheerful and excited. Either he's managed to take more control of his emotions since last night or he has genuinely reverted back to his usual self. Either way, England is still surprised.

'How did you find me? We're quite far away from the meeting spot...'

'Yeah, I know,' America says casually, grinning quite proudly. 'I almost lost you when you caught that cab outside the building. I caught one directly after you. I don't mind, though, 'cause to be honest, I've always wanted to yell the words 'follow that cab!', like we're in a movie or something.'

England rolls his eyes. 'Naturally. Any of the others planning on showing up too?'

America shrugs. 'No idea. I ran out right after you. I don't know what the other guys were doing.'

'And why exactly did you follow me?' England mutters, avoiding eye contact. He's not sure how he feels about America being here. A part of him is glad that America at least seems to care about what happens to him. Another part is reluctant to be around him, because England knows he's coming across as cold and cautious, and he's already been informed that he's spent most of the meeting unintentionally glaring at the younger nation.

America laughs. 'Any excuse to ditch a boring meeting, man. Besides, is it really a good idea for you to go wondering off, Iggy? You might fall into another river, and who knows how long you'll be gone this time?'

He means it as a joke, of course, but the words chill England. And he's uncomfortable with the casual way America says it. Still, he probably deserves it after how cold he's been around America. But he can't help it. There's still something so wrong.

'Your brother's probably looking for you,' America says. 'He always gets angry about something at meetings- he even punched France in the face once; it was hilarious! You should have been there, man! He can get pretty mad!'

'Believe me, I know,' England mutters.

'Wales isn't too bad, though. He's quite friendly. Pretty fun to be around.'

England frowns. 'You know Wales? I don't remember having ever introduced the two of you to each other.'

'No, uh, we met a few years ago. Right after you...'

_Disappeared,_ England finishes in his head. It seems a lot of people have gotten closer since he left. America seems to know the UK brothers better. He's even friends with Sealand. Speaking of the micronation, he apparently visits the rest of the family a lot more. Not for the first time, England pushes it to the back of his mind.

None of it's important. Being bitter about nations resenting him. Getting upset over such things is... ridiculous. It's not surprising. Most of them never liked him and they all thought he was dead anyway.

_'Exactly. Shut up and think about us instead,'_ says the voice, and England reaches up to clutch his head. This is unacceptable. He's been accused of seeing and hearing things his whole life, but he's always known that others simply can't perceive what he can because they don't have the Sight. But this is different. He's not meant to be hearing voices in his head, not like he did during the civil war.

'You okay, dude?'

'Headache,' England lies. 'Doesn't matter. What are you planning on doing today, anyway? You should be at the meeting.'

America pouts. 'So should you.'

'What use would I be? Scotland has replaced me.'

'But you're joining the G8 again now that you're back, right? Besides, why the hell would I wanna stick around there if there are cloud monsters trying to kill us? I may be the hero and everything, but that thing was scary!'

England sighs. 'The G8 won't be bothered by the supernatural while I'm not around. Whoever sent is is after me.'

_Please just go back, America. Something feels too wrong about you being here, and besides, you don't want to have to endure any more glaring and scathing comments. You're safer away from me, anyway._

But he doesn't say any of this out loud, and America doesn't appear to be fazed by anything this morning. 'Come on, man,' he says excitedly. 'If we're gonna skive the meeting, we should at least do it right; no point in just standing around and stuff. We should totally go and see a movie and go get a big lunch somewhere, 'cause I'm starving!'

England smiles weakly. 'I don't suppose McDonald's has miraculously closed down in the five years I've been away?'

'Nope! Still around and still awesome!'

'Ah, well. I can dream. And we're not going there, before you ask.'

'Come on, dude! No fair!'

There's a genuine smile edging its way onto England's face now. As uncomfortable as he is, he is embraced with a sense of familiarity. This could be like any other day where he finds himself stuck with America, arguing about what to do and where to go. Just like it was before. _Almost_ like it was before.

But isn't. He knows it isn't.

* * *

_'Iggy? Dude? You home?'_

_America raps on the door again, feeling thoroughly confused. He looks around the neighbourhood again, still wondering whether the headline was even true. He saw it all over social media last night, and again this morning when he arrived in the UK and he glanced at a copy of_ The Daily Telegraph _that had been left on a train carriage on the Underground on the journey to England's house._

**SNOWING IN LONDON.  
6** **th** **November, 2010.**  
Millions across the city witnessed  
the unnatural phenomenon that happened  
last night at around 8PM. Experts  
are at a loss as to explaining how the  
unscheduled anomaly occurred.

_Which seems fairly impossible. England hardly ever gets much snow, even in the middle of the winter, and it's only early November. And there are no tell tale signs that it genuinely happened. The snow has disappeared completely, having not settled on the ground whatsoever. This part isn't too strange, as snow rarely does settle in the UK because of how wet the ground is from the rain. But seriously? Snow in London in November?_

_'Come on, man, open up! I wanna hear about the snow! It's not fair that you get snow before I do!'_

_There aren't any sounds from the other side of the door. England's house is seemingly quiet. It's around 10am, so England may have already left. America has already tried dialling England's mobile phone multiple times, but it's always gone straight to voicemail._

_'Eng-' America starts to shout but at that moment the door opens and he is greeted with the sight of a grumpy looking Brit._

_'Do you mind? Is the yelling really necessary?'_

_America stares in surprise at the other nation. Quite a few things are very wrong. His hair is different, now a light brown shade and slightly longer, more shaggy at the sides. His eyes aren't green but blue. The eyebrows are still the same and his voice hasn't changed much, but the accent isn't English._

_'Who... who are you...?'_

_The other nation scowls. He looks completely exhausted. 'Bloody hell. You're America, aren't you? Brawd bach was right about you; you are really_ loud. _'_

_America thinks about it quickly. Aside from the slight differences, this nations looks quite similar to England- definitely related to him. America knows it's not Ireland because he's met him plenty of times before at world meetings. But England has other brothers, ones America hasn't met before. France has mentioned them a couple of times, but England never likes to talk about them._

_'Are you one of England's brothers?' America asks._

_The other nation rolls his eyes and stands aside to let America into the house. 'Wales. Pleasure.'_

_America grins as he steps inside. 'Cool. Nice to meet you, man. So, uh... is England here?'_

_Wales's face grows solemn. 'No. No one's heard from him since yesterday. Been searching for him all night. Little bugger's probably wasted in a pub somewhere.' He tries to sound casual, but his expression betrays him. There's quite obvious worry on his face._

_'Maybe he went on holiday or something?' America suggests._

_'Nah, Scotland saw him yesterday morning. Do you need something?'_

_America scratches the back of his head. 'Uh... no, not really. I was planning on visiting the UK fairly soon, and when I heard about the snow... I kinda wanted to see it for myself...'_

_'Well, as you can see, there's nothing to look at now,' Wales mutters. 'Besides, there are more pressing more matters at hand. I have a missing brother. And he wasn't quite right recently.'_

_'Huh?'_

_'He's been acting weird. Scotland said he was really on edge yesterday when he saw him. And then he went and disappeared last night. But this isn't really any of your business, so don't go worrying about him or anything...' He sounds like he's trying to reassure himself._

_America laughs. 'I'm not worried about him! It's like you said, he's probably wasted in some bar somewhere. It wouldn't be the first time I've had to drag his wasted ass home.'_

_A flicker of irritation crosses over Wales's face. 'It's like I said, there's something wrong with him right now. But if you just came for the snow then...' Wales glances outside through the open door. 'As you can see, it's gone now,' he says quietly. 'And so is England.'_

* * *

England is on edge. America may not be great at reading the atmosphere most of the time, but this is blindingly obvious.

The two settle for a café in the end, as England refuses to step foot inside Burger King or McDonald's. America is bursting with questions, but he knows that most of them are ones that England can't answer. Not while he still has amnesia.

'So... three years, hmm?'

'Huh?'

England swirls the tea in his cup around with a spoon absent-mindedly, not looking up. 'Three years looking for me.'

'Um... yeah...' America leans back on his chair, unsure of what to say. England sounds emotionless, his face completely neutral. He's guarding himself very subtly.

'We looked all over your own land first,' America elaborates finally, when he realises England isn't going to be the next person to talk. 'And after that, we scoured the rest of Europe, but we get that feeling, you know? Countries know when there are other nations on our land. And no one could sense you; no one on the entire planet.'

England still says nothing.

America gives a nervous laugh. 'I asked Tony if you'd been abducted, but he said you hadn't been. And no one could find any traces of you.'

'So you all assumed I was dead,' England says calmly. 'Why jump to that conclusion?'

'I didn't.'

England raises his eyebrows. 'Hmm?'

'I didn't think you were dead. I knew you were still alive,' America says, feeling a little bolder. It feels good to say it, and he wants England to find some reassurance in it.

'And how did you know?' England asks quietly.

'I-' _I knew because..._

'Well?'

_… because someone told me._

America plasters a big smile on his face. ''Cause I'm the hero, and I know stuff like that! I had a feeling in my gut!'

A ghost of a smile flickers across England's face. 'Honestly,' he sighs in that disapproving voice he always used to use, the one America knew he never really meant.

Here he is- though distant and barely accessible- the old England. The England from five years ago, before he vanished. Even though he's changed drastically, the old England is still there somewhere. Underneath the wild eyes and restless, distrusting exterior, it's still England. It has to be.

But then America remembers how England spent the whole meeting this morning glaring at him, watching him with eyes that seemed almost... fearful. He may be sitting in a café, engaging in conversation with America, but this new England is wary of him. More than that.

He's scared of him. As if he's expecting America to attack him.

America gently shakes his head and tries to push it from his mind.

* * *

_England must have lost consciousness again. When he opens his eyes, they don't sting as much and he's able to see a little better. There isn't much to take note of, however. There's just a pitch black ceiling and nothing else. He tries twisting his head around but his body aches and he can't move properly._

_Then there's a mirror above him. England squints in confusion, because his reflection isn't tied down to a table like he is. The reflection is standing next to him, leaning over him with a wide smile and vibrant, electric blue eyes._

_'Wakey wakey,' it says._

_England tries to struggle, but his whole body is paralysed. Whether it's from exhaustion, pain, a drug of some kind, or maybe even a combination of all of them, he isn't sure._

_The reflection giggles and holds out his arm above England's head, showing a clenched fist. 'You still think it was snow? Look. Feel.' The hand unclenches and little white flakes flutter down from it in an instant, scattering all over England's face._

_'N... no... s-stop...'_

_The burning, both physical and from dawning realisation, feels as if it's tearing England apart._

_'Remember, remember...' the reflections sings. '… the fifth of November...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the whole bickering with France thing. And about how uncomfortable England is with America. He is basically cut off from the other nations in several ways. And he's terrible at expressing himself properly. It's unfortunate, really.
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, and remember to review!
> 
> Bye!


	7. Trustless Strangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite angsty. Don't say I didn't warn you.
> 
> So, yeah... Not many characters in this one. It doesn't really answer questions but instead just raises a few more for England, and for you guys too, probably. But a lot of it will be answered too, I promise.
> 
> Allons-y!

_'Hello...? Please... if anyone can... hear me... please... just...'_

* * *

'Where in the hell have yeh been?' Scotland snaps as England unlocks the hotel room door to find his brother leaning out on the balcony.

'Out and about.'

'That's not a bloody answer and yeh know it. Yeh've been gone the whole day. Yeh were meant to stay in the meeting, not run away.'

'I had other ideas. How can you honestly just attend an ordinary meeting when you know there's a supernatural force posing a threat?'

Scotland scowls. 'You killed it.'

England sighs. 'There will be more. That was just the first attack.'

Scotland steps inside and slams the door the balcony quite forcibly. 'Right. That's it. Yeh're gonna tell me everything now. Absolutely everything yeh know. No excuses. No ruddy lies. Your dreams, any memories that might be comin' back- I want to hear all of it.'

England frowns. 'Perhaps if you ask nicely.'

'The way I ask doesn't make a damn difference with yeh. All yeh seem to want to do is bottle it up inside of yeh and not talk about it and that's gotta stop now.'

England seriously considers walking straight back out through the door and going for a late night walk. It's got to be better that trying to explain everything to his brother.

'There's nothing to say,' he mutters finally.

Scotland looks angry now. 'England,' he says firmly. 'Talk.'

England pushes past his brother and slumps down on his bed. 'I'm tired. Just give it a rest, Scotland. I don't remember anything. That's the whole point of amnesia.'

Scotland leans down and grabs a fistful of his brother's shirt, pulling England up into a sitting position. 'What part of no excuses and no lies did yeh not understand?'

England pushes his hand away. 'It's none of your business,' he remarks icily.

'Then who's business is it?'

'Mine, and mine alone.'

Scotland glares down at him. 'Yeh're a bloody idiot. I'm trying to _help_ you.'

England knows that, deep down. But there's still that stubborn part of him that overrules reason. There's too much history with his eldest brother to simply open up. He's still half expecting Scotland to call him a wimpy little brat and go back to openly disliking him like he should be doing.

'How are we supposed to help you figure all of this out if you don't trust us?' Scotland continues.

'I don't- I _can't_ trust anyone,' England blurts out.

'And why's that?'

'Because you're all different.'

' _You're_ the one who's changed.'

'None of you are the same,' England argues. 'I look at you all and you're not the people I remember and I don't know any of you. You're like blurred photographs. Like I can't see your faces. Your _real_ faces. Being here with the rest of you just feels _wrong._ Like we're not the same. I'm not... I'm not...' _One of you._

Scotland scowls. 'That's bloody ridiculous.'

'Well, that's how it is. You wanted me to talk- well, there you go. If you're not happy with my answer then tough luck, because it's the best one I can give.'

Scotland's silent for a while, before he says. 'Yeh know yeh can trust me. And Ireland and Wales.'

'I told you,' England says through gritted teeth. 'I can't trust anyone. I can't even trust myself. Not while I'm having all these crazy dreams and I'm seeing things and hearing...' He trails off once he becomes aware that he is in fact saying this part aloud, which he wasn't meant to do. Great. Now even his internal monologues are becoming verbal. He's definitely losing it. Or maybe he subconsciously wants Scotland to know.

 _If only I knew what I want,_ he thinks bitterly.

Scotland steps forward. 'Seeing and hearing things?'

'Y... Yeah...'

'Hallucinating?'

'M-maybe. I'm not sure.'

Scotland is just inches away from his brother now. England's mind is screaming at him to bolt but he remains where he is. It's practically the only self-control he has left.

'And what kind of things are yeh seeing and hearing?' Scotland asks.

'Voices... of whoever... found me.'

'The people who kidnapped yeh? The ones who gave yeh those scars?'

 _Do I trust Scotland? I don't remember mentally agreeing to the idea of telling him anything. Perhaps I should trust him. He_ is _my brother. We haven't been enemies for a long time. And he's trying to help me. But being around all the countries, even my family, doesn't feel right. Trusting them feels wrong._

'Yes.'

'Do you remember what they look like?'

'Not yet. Just their eyes. One pair red, the other blue.'

'Anything else?'

'No. Not really.' England flat out refuses to say anything else. He's opened up far too much. Whether or nor he is beginning to trust his brother, he doesn't want to have to think about it.

Scotland sighs. 'Okay. Better than nothin'.' He examines his brother's face for a second before continuing. 'I told Wales 'bout the incident with the entity. He's coming here.'

England is surprised. 'What, actually flying over here?'

'Yeah, an' bringing Sealand with him by the sound of it, seeing as the lad's stayin' with him.'

'Is Ireland coming too?'

'Not that I know of. It would be ruddy hell if the whole family popped over.'

'Jesus,' England mutters, rubbing his forehead. He doesn't want to have to think about it.

* * *

Late at night, England reviews his situation.

Scotland is fast asleep and snoring quite loudly. If he wanted to, England could get up and leave. He probably won't be allowed to ditch the meeting tomorrow, and Scotland might even make him tell the other nations everything he has already admitted to Scotland.

He doesn't want any of them to know. He's not sure he can trust them- and not because of any bad history he might share with them, more to do with what he said to Scotland- about how no one seems the same. It's like he doesn't really know them anymore. He's uncomfortable being anywhere near the other nations.

Especially America.

England feels like punching himself. There's something seriously wrong with him. And _nothing_ wrong with America. He hates to admit it, but something about the younger nation _scares_ him. He's spent a few hours today with America and not once did he feel at ease. It's unsettling to know that this... fear is completely irrational, but to have it anyway.

 _I'm not scared,_ England thinks, glaring at the ceiling above his bed. _Why the hell would I be scared? It's stupid. I should be scared of whoever did this to me. No, actually, I shouldn't. I mustn't be afraid._

 _'Can't be weak, can we? Weakness gets you killed,'_ he remembers one of his captors saying, the one with the demonic red eyes who tortured him. The one he keeps seeing, the one no one else has noticed.

_He's the one I should be afraid of. And he's the one who told me not to be afraid._

* * *

At around four in the morning, England slips out of the room. He's fed up with trying to get to sleep and failing, so he decides to go for a a quiet walk while it's still dark. He has no idea how long he'll be gone so he's left a note for Scotland, in case his brother wakes up and realises he's missing.

Naturally, the city is still fairly busy and loud, but England finds that he doesn't mind too much. More people means it's easier to blend in and not be noticed. He imagines that the other nations won't be awake at this hour so he's not at risk of being spotted by anyone he knows. That's something.

Despite his suspicions, he catches no glimpse of the red eyed demon. For something that seems to like following him around a lot, the creature seems fairly elusive now. Strange as it seems, it only tends to appear when he's around the other nations. _The one I'm seeing is not even real,_ England reminds himself. _I'm just hallucinating. Wherever the real thing is, the one who tortured me, it's not here._

He reaches a park eventually. The gate is locked and too tall to climb with ease, but England simply waves his hand over the padlock and it begins to glow before snapping open. A simple enchantment like that shouldn't use up too much of his strength, and he'd like some privacy for what he's about to do next.

There is a little pond in the centre of the park, enclosed by a clump of sycamores. England reaches the pool and peers down into the murky water. It can't be too deep, as it's only a small pond. England closes his eyes and blocks out the sounds of the cars and the faraway sirens in the distance. As calmly as he can, blocking out all the worry and unease, he lets his magic flow out.

'Come to me,' he whispers.

Beyond his closed eyelids, he can make out a glow. He opens his eyes and is greeted with the sight of a hundred dancing fireflies skimming across the now lit up surface of the water. At least, an onlooker might believe them to be fireflies, as peculiar as the sight is. Then again, an onlooker wouldn't even be able to see them in the first place- most people can't. They most certainly are not fireflies. England knows better than that.

 _My friends,_ he thinks, smiling. For the first time in a while, he feels completely at ease. Finally, something that feels right.

' _England,'_ the little voices whisper back. _'You have returned.'_

They sound just as happy as England feels. 'I have.'

 _'You're alive,'_ they continue, relief evident in their voices.

England frowns. 'You thought I was dead, too? I mean, the other nations believed it, but they don't have the powers that you possess.'

_'Where were you?'_

'I don't know,' England says, feeling a little dejected. 'I was hoping you might. Couldn't you sense me at all?'

The fae flutter around nervously, clearly unsettled. _'You were no longer here.'_

'I must have been somewhere. I'm starting to remember bits and pieces.'

 _'You were nowhere on this earth,'_ the fae reply. _'There wasn't a trace of you. You were gone.'_

'But then... where could I have been?'

 _'The other one asked the same questions,'_ the fae continue.

'Other one?'

_'Your kin. His magic was not as great as yours, but it was enough to summon us.'_

_They must be talking about Scotland,_ England concludes. _His magic is superior to Ireland's and Wales's. If anyone had a chance of contacting this realm, it was him._

 _'We could not help him,'_ the fae continue. _'Nor could we help find you. We are truly sorry, England.'_

There's a lump in England's throat, which is ridiculous. He shouldn't be saddened by this. He shouldn't show weakness. But he was so sure that the fae would know something of his disappearance. After all, it definitely had something to do with magic. How else would have vanished off the earth completely?

The fae were his last hope, and not even they could do anything for him when he was gone.

'Can you at least tell me about the thing that attacked the G8?' England tries. 'You must have sensed it yesterday.'

 _'It was a creature of dark magic, a malevolent entity,'_ the fae reply quietly. They're scared. _It was conjured by a magic we know not of.'_

'A different kind of magic? One you don't know about? How's that possible?'

_'It comes from something unknown. Something that dwells beyond our understanding.'_

'… Oh.' England reaches up and brushes away one tiny little tear that's threatening to spill. He is _not_ allowed to get emotional. It's unacceptable. It's weak. 'Well... thank you for trying. And for speaking to me. I'm glad that I'm able to talk to you all again. I...' He swallows for a second, unsure of whether he should confide completely in the fae. He's been hesitant with opening up to anyone so far, but these are his friends, and they have been there his entire life. Besides, who are they going to tell?

'I... I don't know where I was, but I know it was somewhere very far away,' he says finally. 'And... I know I was alone.' _Aside from my tormentors._ 'I was alone and... I was afraid.'

* * *

England doesn't really intend to fall asleep beside the pond, but he does. He has spent the whole night awake and the exhaustion is finally catching up; only now does he feel tired. When he awakens, the sun has risen and the park is close to opening time. He slips out quietly without anyone noticing and heads back to the hotel. Scotland is nowhere to be seen by the time he has arrived, either for the meeting or perhaps to look for his little brother. England finds the note that he left Scotland scrunched up and in the bin, which means that the latter has definitely read it. Still exhausted, England slumps down on his bed and decides to get a bit more sleep. He is just closing his eyes when the balcony door slides open. England lets out a cry of shock.

'Yeh're back from yer late night wanderings, then?' Scotland says. He doesn't look amused at all.

'I thought you weren't here!' England shouts, embarrassed that he almost fell off the bed in shock. He's also also ashamed that he didn't bother to check and see if he was truly alone.

Scotland has a cigarette between his jaws and a prominent scowl. 'I thought yeh'd buggered off again. Been stressing out all morning.'

'That explains the smoking,' England says, secretly a little pleased that his older brother was concerned for him. Perhaps everything Scotland said about wanted to help him really is true. 'You usually behave yourself abroad. Last time I checked you were cutting back and everything-'

'Never mind that,' Scotland snaps hastily and England grins. 'Why couldn't yeh just stay put?'

'I left a note. Wasn't that enough?'

'Oh, how considerate of yeh. Bet yeh're too tired for the meeting now, huh?'

'Absolutely,' England says. 'Besides, I don't really need to be there; you seem to be able to handle meetings surprisingly well. I would have assumed you'd have left this job for Wales to do when I disappeared.'

Scotland pulls the cigarette out his mouth and crushes against the ash tray on the balcony table. 'He does national stuff, I do foreign stuff. Besides, I needed practice at attending international events in case the Referendum result was a yes.'

'Referendum?'

'Yeah...' Scotland leans up against door frame. He seems to be avoiding England's eyes. 'The, um, Scottish Referendum. Last year. To decide whether I would... yeh know... leave the UK...'

'Right.' The compassion England felt for his brother moments before is extinguished rather abruptly. Nobody bothered mentioning any of this to England when he was catching up on everything he missed. 'Why didn't you leave?' This is curious. Scotland's been complaining about being unified with England and Wales ever since... well, ever since they united in the first place. Shouldn't he have left at the first chance he got?

'In the end, the majority voted no,' Scotland finishes a little awkwardly. 'Besides, I couldn't leave Wales to do all the work. He'd have never coped without me.'

'I always used to do all the work and I managed just fine,' England says huffily.

'Yeh're a mystery, little brother. In so many ruddy ways. I should get going or I'll be late. Don't go wandering off again. Unless yeh plan on coming to the meeting later on in the day.'

'Not likely,' England says, letting his head fall back on his pillow.

* * *

He changes his mind after his sleep. The clock on his bedside table reads 13:43, so he decides he's rested long enough. He forces himself to think reasonably. _The only way I'm going to settle back into this life is if I start to embrace the way things used to work,_ he thinks. _I should go to the meeting instead of acting like a child skiving school, for one._

The meeting place is in the same location as the one they were all in yesterday, another government building (the first is currently under reconstruction because of the entity- or gas leak, as they're telling everyone).

The building is fairly quiet. England knows that everyone is on the third floor, so he heads for the elevator, only to stop in his tracks when he spots France, Germany, Russia and Japan chatting close by. The G8 must be taking a short break from the meeting. England immediately ducks behind an indoor pillar and curses himself for following these weird new instincts of his. There's no reason why he should hide from these nations. He's just being ridiculous.

But he does it anyway.

'You haven't told anyone yet, right?' Germany is saying. 'I can understand why Scotland wants to keep quiet about it for now. It's better if England's return is kept quiet until we understand a bit more. Besides, we don't want to put any other nations in danger.'

'So you definitely think that being in England's presence is dangerous?' Russia says rather calmly, with his usual chilling smile. 'I agree. It is peculiar how that creature attacked us all on the day we saw England again. It's definitely after him- and those around him. This is most strange. I like it.'

'That's not what I meant,' Germany says hastily. 'I mean, ja, sort of, but I'm not implying that it's England's fault or anything-'

'But he is dangerous now,' Russia continues innocently. 'He carries that pretty knife around with him. And he doesn't trust us.'

'What do you mean, Russia-san?' Japan says uneasily.

'You can see it on his face,' Russia says cheerfully. 'He is a very different person now. Something has snapped inside him. It is very interesting.'

'Something 'appened to 'im,' France pipes up. 'Something 'e won't talk about. Angleterre 'as always been too proud to discuss such things.'

'He doesn't remember anything, though. He said so,' Germany points out.

'He is probably remembering bits and pieces,' Russia guesses. 'And he chooses to stay away because he's afraid we'll figure it all out and he doesn't trust us. What I want to know is why he is still alive. We were told he was definitely dead, no doubt about it.'

England freezes. Who the hell told them that? He's about to decide that maybe this is just Russia messing with all of their heads when he hears Japan say, 'That's true. I didn't want to believe it, but who were we to argue? We had proof...'

Proof? What the hell...?

'Everyone makes mistakes,' France says quietly. 'Écosse may 'ave been wrong about Angleterre, but we can 'ardly blame 'im.'

England's breath catches in his throat. His eyes widen in shock.

 _É_ _cosse._ The French word for _Scotland._

Scotland.

Scotland is the one who told everyone he was dead.

The nations didn't just jump to the conclusion that we was dead because they couldn't find him. They gave up looking for him because Scotland convinced them that England was no longer alive.

_Why?_

'But he was certain,' Russia says pleasantly. 'Scotland told us he was definitely dead.'

England slides down the pillar and ends up crouching at the bottom, still staring ahead with wide eyes.

It makes sense. Of course it does. Scotland must have talked to the fae and jumped to this conclusion. And then told everyone else. That's why the search was called off so early. After all, what's the point in looking for a dead man? Perhaps that's why Scotland's being so nice to him now. Maybe he's feeling guilty? This is... excusable. It has to be. England has to let this go. He mustn't let it bother him.

Scotland gave up on his little brother and convinced everyone else to do so too. And all the while, England was alive. Alive and alone.

He mustn't let this hurt him. He mustn't be weak.

_I chose to trust him last night. And he's the one who betrayed me in the first place._

England grits his teeth and clenches his fists tightly, refusing to let this hurt. He has to be stronger than that. No tears. No sadness.

'Speaking of Écosse, I'm visiting 'im this evening for a drink. 'E told me that Angleterre 'ardly ever sticks around but with any luck 'e might be there too. Maybe 'e might even answer some more questions.'

'That would be good,' Japan agrees. 'I think there are some things that England-san remembers, but he probably feels too uncomfortable confiding in us. Like Russia-san said, I'm not sure he altogether-'

'Trusts us anymore,' Germany finishes.

They continue talking after that, but their voices are eventually cut off as they step inside the elevator. England is left alone in the lobby, still unmoving, his mind racing.

 _Get up,_ his mind says, but his legs won't move. He feels cold and numb.

_I wish none of this ever happened. I wish I hadn't disappeared. I wish I wasn't broken up inside._

'Hey, England,' says a voice from in front of him and he looks up in an instant, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. He knows that voice. That terrible, familiar voice.

Standing before him is the red eyed figure. The rest of the body is still hazy and indistinguishable but the demonic irises are all too prominent. And the smile. There's a smile.

'What are you doing down there?' the demon asks.

England almost screams, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out. He presses himself up against the pillar, paralysed in fear.

 _You're not really here,_ his mind yells. _You're somewhere far away. You can't hurt me anymore._

The demon seems to hesitate for a second before taking a step closer. 'What's wrong?' it taunts. 'It's just me.'

England's knife is still in his jacket pocket. But the demon is the person he got it from in the first place. After all, it was the blade being used to torture him. England doesn't want the demon to take the knife back.

With all the strength he can muster, England pushes himself away from the pillar and stumbles to his feet. Without allowing time to steady himself, he races towards the main entrance and throws himself at the doors.

 _You coward!_ his mind screams at him. _Useless, pathetic, bloody coward! It was just a hallucination; it must have been!_

He's supposed to be in the meeting, acting like an ordinary nation. Instead he's running as fast as he can away from the other countries because he's seeing his nightmares in his waking moments too.

And he can't confide in Scotland. Not now. He's not making that mistake again.

* * *

It's half past eight in the evening and Scotland hasn't returned to the room yet. He's downstairs in the lobby, probably drinking. England spotted him earlier at the bar and refused to confront him. He doesn't want to talk to him. He's not ready.

England crouches down with his back against the railings of the balcony, rotating his knife in his hands, eyes fixed but glazed over. His coat is wrapped tightly around him to protect him from the cold and the words of the other nations are echoing in his head.

_'… he is dangerous now... he doesn't trust us... something has snapped inside him...'_

So it turns out they're just as distrustful of him as he is of them.

He gets to his feet and leans on the railings, staring down at the street below. What the hell is he supposed to do? His captors must have been the ones who sent the entity after him. And they're certainly going to try again.

But who can he trust? Everyone he used to know have become strangers. People who believed him to be dead. People who _expected_ him to be dead.

 _America didn't..._ Somewhere at the back of England's mind, he remembers that America said he never believed that England had died. But he probably just said that to sound like the hero he claims to be. Or maybe he was actually trying to make England feel better...

England gradually becomes aware that he recognises the lone figure on the otherwise deserted street below, heading towards the hotel. He'd know that wavy blonde hair anywhere.

That's right. He overheard France mentioning earlier that he was meeting Scotland at the hotel for a drink. England rolls his eyes and is about to exit the balcony and head inside when he spots a dark figure racing towards France. Even from this height, he can see the red eyes.

It's the demon.

England gasps and is about to shout out when he remembers that it's just him hallucinating. It doesn't matter that the demon is getting closer to France, because it's not really here. Besides, why should he care about what happens to the frog?

But then France turns and faces the demon, and England stiffens, his hands tightening on the railings.

France can _see_ it.

It's _real._

England is about to yell at France to run when he notices that France is calmly facing the demon. And the demon is just standing there, not attacking. They're _chatting._

'What?' England whispers. This can't be right. If the demon was real all along, then how come no one was reacting it? And how come France is talking to it?

He gets even more of a shock when he sees France raise a hand and put it on the demon's shoulder, almost like it's in reassurance.

England backs away from the railings in shock. This is impossible. Not only is the demon he's been seeing over the last few days real, but it...

It knows France.

No.

He's _working_ with it.

England slams the balcony door shut and sits down on his bed, knife still clenched in his fist. What can he do anymore? His brother told everyone to give up on him. France is working with the people who kidnapped and hurt him.

No wonder he has trust issues. He's surrounded by strangers and enemies.

 _'Not scared, are you?'_ says the red eyed demon's voice in his head. England's not sure if it's a memory or if the demon can talk to him mentally whilst attending other matters.

'Leave me alone,' England whispers, clutching his head. He's horrified to discover that his voice sounds like a choked sob. 'Leave me alone!'

The laughter echoes around his head, accompanied with one simple word. _'Alone, alone, alone...'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't be angry at France or Scotland. Or anyone, really. These things will sort themselves out in due time. Or rather, I will sort them out, as I am the author. ;) Basically, England is, uh, how do I put this? He's misinterpreting a few things around him. He's determined not to see the concern in those around him. The whole thing with France and the demon... well, that will make sense too. It's complicated.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


	8. Countless Dangers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone!
> 
> Back in my own country now and finally getting over the jet lag. I'm also spending a lot more time writing, which is good. To anyone who reads The Year That Never Was (my Doctor Who/Hetalia story), I should have that updated soon. I've got most of the next chapter written out.
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: angst (when isn't there?), drunken ramblings (as in England, not me), slightly strange behavior on America's part (ish) and a hell of a lot of paranoia on England's. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Allons-y!

Right now, it's a choice between confronting them or escaping. There's no other option.

England has advanced from the room and entered the elevator. As he reaches the ground floor, he peers around a corner into the lobby. Over in the corner where the minibar is situated, France is greeting Scotland. Neither of them should be able to spot England, thankfully. The demon isn't there. It has obviously parted ways with France… but this does not change the fact that they were talking in the first place. The fact that they're allies.

_He's no demon,_ England thinks to himself. _I must stop referring to his as such. He's just a person. I'm not sure if he's a human or if he's something else, but he's not a demon._ Nevertheless, the crimson eyes of the shady figure remain so demonic in his memories.

_He both tortured and threatened to kill me,_ England remembers. He's certain of this. _And if he's working with France then perhaps France will try to help him. Maybe he's using Scotland to get to me. Perhaps Scotland's in on it too._

_No._ England feels quite agonised at the mere thought. Scotland may be a terrible older brother and he _did_ give up on England and convince everyone else to do so too, but he has had plenty of opportunities to harm England since the younger returned. Besides, as betrayed as England feels, he refuses to accept that his elder brother wants to physically hurt him too.

So… what to do? He can't go back up to the room because eventually Scotland will come up, and France might come too, seeing as England overheard France mentioning earlier about how he wants to ask England questions.

_Ask me questions? Or kill me? Which is, France?_

Ignoring the gut-wrenching feeling he gets when these thoughts pass through his head, England emerges from the wall he's hiding behind and makes his way to the front entrance of the hotel, hoping he won't be noticed by the other two nations. Unfortunately, he has to walk by quite close to them to reach his destination. He pulls the collar of his jacket up a little further in an effort to obscure his face. As he gets closer, he begins to hear snippets of their conversation.

'… Screaming?'

'Aye, because of a nightmare. And I don't mean a wee shriek either, I mean a full on about-to-be-murdered screech. Woke me up in the middle of the night with the noise. And he still wouldn't talk 'bout it afterwards. Damn stubborn bastard.' Scotland takes a massive swig of his drink.

'Why, though?' France asks. 'Angleterre is quite secluded about anything personal, but 'e offered no explanation at all? Not even to you?'

'He doesn't trust me,' Scotland says.

_I wonder why,_ England thinks savagely.

'He'd go absolutely mental if he found out I've told yeh all of this,' Scotland mutters. 'He'd probably kick my arse.'

_Damn right. For this and for everything else. Of course I don't trust you._

'Angleterre?'

Oh shit.

Scotland and France are both swivelled round in their seats, staring at England. He freezes and stares back at them before spitting out a simple, 'What?'

'You, uh… heard that?' Scotland says awkwardly.

'Well, I'm not deaf,' England snaps back.

He's not even sure what's bothering him the most. Is it the fact that Scotland's revealing too much about his situation behind his back or the fact that it's _France_ of all people who is being supplied this information?

No. It's got more to do with France working with the demon. That's England's main concern. He never would have assumed that France becoming his enemy once more would bother him so much but it does. They've been allies for a while now. They still argue and play the hate game, but… they're not enemies anymore. They _weren't_ enemies anymore.

It hurts.

But now he's just sitting there with an unreadable expression. The only thing England can make out about both France and Scotland is that they're embarrassed at having been caught talking about him. And maybe a little ashamed.

'Are yeh headed somewhere?' Scotland asks finally.

'Out. For a drink.'

'Well, yeh could just have a drink with us right here,' the redhead points out, gesturing the minibar.

'No, I don't think so,' England says coldly. He turns around and walks off, refusing to look back at them.

* * *

Two pints of beer later and England is feeling a little bit better.

To be honest, now that the alcohol is in his system, his problems are dancing only on the edge of his mind as opposed to occupying it completely. His worries are still quietly nagging away, but he can easily fix that by ordering another round. Tonight, he's going to ignore it all. Ignore the anger, sadness, paranoia, worry. So what if it feels as if someone's watching him? So what if he's letting his guard down? He's too tired to care.

'Another one,' he mutters to the bartender.

'Probably not such a good idea, man,' says a voice behind him.

America takes a seat next to England and grins widely. England glares back. 'What are you doing here?'

'Stopping you from getting wasted to the point where you can't walk. I'm _not_ carrying you back.'

'It doesn't have to be any of your concern if you just leave,' England says irritably. 'How'd you know where to find me?'

'I was in the neighbourhood,' America says casually. 'Japan's not staying far away from your hotel and we were gaming. I saw France earlier too. He said he was getting a drink with Scotland. Shouldn't you be doing this with them?'

'Why on earth would I want to?'

'I spotted you leaving the hotel not long after. It's only round the corner, anyway. You didn't do a very good job of getting away this time.'

'I wasn't trying to get away, I was trying to get _drunk._ I'm still trying.'

'Yeah, I figured I should probably intervene after a couple of pints. Sorry, dude.'

'I'm not stopping-' But America has already grabbed his arm and is hauling him away from the bar. Freezing at the unexpected, unwelcome physical contact, England is hardly able to resist being dragged away.

As the cold night air quickly reaches his skin, England knows he's messed up because he's now at that stage of drunkenness where he despises himself even more than he usually does. He's furious at the decisions he's made this evening. Getting intoxicated was stupid. So, bloody _foolish_. He's even more vulnerable that when he's sleeping, because even then he always wakes up pretty easily and is ready with his knife should he need to find. Like this, England can't even recall whether he even has his knife with him. _Oh God, please let me have my knife._ What good would it do though? He'd probably collapse if he tried swinging it.

One half of his mind is screaming in fear because of all the countries to find him, it's America, the one who unnerves him the most, and the other half is yelling in anger at the opposite side because it's _America_ for crying out loud, and why on earth should be afraid of him? America has apparently been keeping an eye on England since he entered the bar and England never even _realised_. He's completely let his guard slip.

'I'm so stupid,' he mutters, and is promptly horrified at how the words come out as a drunken sob.

America chuckles. 'Dude, you need to chill. You always used to get drunk. You haven't even had too much this time, don't worry.'

But England _does_ worry because none of this is okay. He's still being held in America's grip and being pulled along. He wants to run but he knows he can't in this state. And he's so _tired_. Tired and afraid and _tired of being afraid_. He just wants everything to be the same again. He wants the demon to leave him alone (oh hell- it was close by not long ago, what if it's still here?) and he wants the dreams to stop and the voices to shut up. And he's so sick of not knowing. He just wants to forget all the bad things completely or to remember it completely so he can piece it all together and figure out what the hell happened to him.

The hotel entrance is within sight now and finally England finds the strength to resist. 'No, _no,'_ he refuses, struggling his way out of America's hold. 'I'm not going back in there. I'm not seeing them.'

'Who? Scotland? France?'

'I'd rather sleep in the bloody park again,' England says stubbornly.

'Park? What park?'

England ignores any questions America asks him. All that matters is that he cannot, he _will not_ go back in there. Not if Scotland thinks he should be dead, not if France actually wants him dead. (Is that right? His mind is hazy because of the alcohol but he's fairly certain it's something along those lines.)

'I'm not going back in there,' he repeats. He's a little wobbly on his feet but he stands his ground.

America tilts his head in confusion. 'Um. Okay. Well, sleeping outdoors isn't a great idea, Iggy. You can stay at my place tonight.'

There are warning bells ringing in England's head. He's too vulnerable right now and he's uncomfortable being around literally everyone, let alone America. This is a bad idea.

But it's far more preferable than the thought of facing France and Scotland in this state.

'Fine,' he mutters. 'Thanks.'

* * *

_It's been three months. At first it goes by so quickly, back when no one takes it seriously. No one really thinks it's a problem in the beginning. But after a few weeks, it becomes important to everyone. The searches expand, covering not just the UK but Europe as well. That's when it feels slower. Agonisingly slow._

_'The British economy is declining rapidly,' Germany announces one meeting, to an audience of nations who, for the most part, are actually paying attention. 'This means that his disappearance is definitely having an impact on the state of the United Kingdom.'_

_'Something must have happened to him,' Japan says quietly._

_'Ve! Why say that, Japan? Maybe he's just gone on holiday and not told anyone,' Italy says optimistically._

_'It's true that England wouldn't be the type to confide in the rest of us about needing a break, aru,' China reasons._

_'Bullshit. He's been gone for three months,' Romano says._

_'A declining economy signals that something unfortunate has happened to him,' Germany agrees with Japan. 'There's no way he would go this long without contacting anyone if all was well.'_

_''E is 'opeless,' France sighs. 'Still, I must admit that this amount of time in silence is unusual, even for Angleterre.'_

_'There's no sign of him anywhere in Britain?' Switzerland asks._

_'His brothers have searched extensively for him. If he doesn't show up soon, Scotland or Wales are going to have to start representing him in meetings until we find him again...'_

_'His brothers?'_

_'He's been gone for three months now. We don't really have much of a choice.'_

_'Dudes, you're all overreacting,' America says loudly. 'Iggy will show up. He hates missing work.'_

_'Well, he's already been missing for three months, aru,' China says._

_America waves it off with a big, casual grin. 'It's fine. This is England we're talking about. He'll turn up at some point.'_

_During the break, America leaves the meeting go and get himself a coffee. The search for England in Europe has only just begun, as everyone has finally decided that he can't possibly be in the UK. They'll find him eventually. They have to._

_Clutching an espresso, America turns around to go back to the meeting and almost collides with someone, coming very close to spilling his coffee._

_'Ah- sorry! Didn't see you there!'_

_'No one ever does,' Canada replies with sigh._

_'Hey bro! You came for a coffee too?'_

_'No,' Canada says quietly. 'I came to talk to you, America. About England.'_

_America chuckles. 'He's taking one hell of a vacation, that's for sure. Kinda hypocritical too, 'cause he's always going on about how it's important to attend meetings and stuff.'_

_Canada frowns. 'You can fool everyone else but I'm not falling for it,' he says softly. 'This is really bad and you know it. You may seem casual but I know you're just putting on an act.'_

_America shrugs, sipping on his coffee. 'What act? He's probably gonna come back after another few weeks and claim that he was playing with all his imaginary friends in Narnia or something.'_

_'We're all worried,' Canada says firmly. 'You included. There's no need to deny it.'_

_America laughs. 'Whatever you say, man.'_

* * *

_It's been one year and America no longer pretends to be casual in front of Canada. He still smiles and jokes around at world meetings like nothing's wrong. But after one year, they still haven't found England. Europe has been thoroughly searched. Someone suggests that perhaps he's in a different continent, so they look through Asia next. China and Japan lead the search, but nothing comes up. Nothing ever does._

_By the year after that, North and South America have been scoured too. The search is now taking place in Oceania, though people are thinking that maybe it's getting a little hopeless. England wouldn't do this, not if he was still around._

_'Why the hell would he just leave like that? Without telling anyone? And he calls_ me _irresponsible,' America mutters down the phone line to his brother on the fifth of November, 2012, two years after the last sighting of England. The London Olympics came and went and all the nations attended, naturally, but with the absence of the host, it didn't feel quite right. America has only known Scotland for the last two years but the summer of the Olympics was the most irritable he had ever seen the redhead, as Scotland and Wales were left to help organise the event._

_'_ America…' _Canada begins quietly on the other end of the line._ 'Have you heard what some people are saying?'

_'I hear everything, man! I'm always up to date on all the social gossip,' America says, trying to sound proud but failing miserably. After all, he's long since given up on pretending that everything's okay in front of Canada. The other nations don't know how much he's worrying, but he no longer hides anything from his brother._

'It's a popular opinion if that's what you mean,' _Canada continues_. 'Not that anyone says it outright. But being invisible to almost everyone means I hear quite a lot.'

_'About?'_

'Everything. Especially what they have to say about England.'

_'Which is?'_

'They think he's dead.'

_America laughs. Not in a cruel way, as if he approves of the thought. More in an incredulous fashion. 'That's stupid.'_

'Most people are starting to jump to this conclusion,' _Canada sighs._ 'Especially after what Scotland's been telling everyone.'

_America frowns. 'What's he been saying?'_

'He… he said that he and Wales and England linked because they're all part of Britain. Apparently Wales and Scotland can't sense England's life force at all. They just didn't have the heart to tell everyone in the beginning because they didn't want to believe it themselves. But Scotland… he thinks we should all call off the search.'

_'What… what the hell? Why the hell would he just-?'_

'I know, I know. But he wouldn't be saying this if he didn't genuinely believe that England is d-'

_'Scotland sure knows how to talk crap,' America says. 'How come I haven't heard anything about this, anyway?'_

_He can practically feel Canada wince on the other end of the line._ 'B… because you're in total denial over all of it, America. You have been from the very start. You shoot down any ideas that suggest that England isn't coming back.'

_'That, bro, is 'cause he_ is _gonna come back. England will come back and you know what he's gonna do? He's gonna complain about us all taking ages to find him and about all the meetings he's missed and the paperwork he hasn't completed and all the_ Doctor Who _episodes he's missed and everything will just go back to how it should be.' America forces a forceful, stubborn voice to say these words, but everything Canada has informed him is causing his stomach to squirm uncomfortably and not for the first time in the last couple of years he feels like… panicking._

_There's silence for a few seconds, then Canada says very quietly,_ 'I hope so, America. I really hope so.'

_When they end the call, America slumps down in an armchair in his living room, closing his eyes for a second and allowing his mind to wonder. It shouldn't be like this. He shouldn't be sitting here, feeling uncomfortable and uneasy, he should be watching TV and playing games or something. That's what he typically would be doing on a night such as this, if things hadn't worked out this way. If England hadn't disappeared and he wasn't worried about the whole situation, as much as he has tried to hide it._

_The concern and the doubt is gnawing away inside him, despite his attempts to supress it. Because what if they're right? The other nations? No, they can't be. If something truly bad had happened, England's land and people would have suffered terribly. Sure, there's been a declining economy, but it's not as if the country is in ruins. Then America remembers what Canada said, about how Scotland and Wales are connected to England, and he remembers Scotland explaining a few months ago that the state of England's land and people can be sustained as because of the connection. Scotland and Wales are substituting for England. His people and land are linked to theirs. Plus, Scotland is apparently admitting that he and Wales can no longer sense England._

_If that's the case, then England truly could be dead._

_For a few terrifying seconds, America lets the one thing he tried to hide the most, both from the other countries and himself, take over: despair._

_England. Dead. The two words don't feel like they should ever be associated, but oh God, what if he really is-?_

_All of a sudden, the phone starts ringing._

_America takes a deep, sharp breath, quickly forcing the fear to the back of his mind. It's probably Canada, phoning back because he's forgotten something. Ha. Canada forgetting. How ironic. America would find that funny if he currently wasn't emotionally screwed up._

_For crap's sake, he and England don't even like each other most of the time. They're constantly arguing and insulting each other. America's always winding England up and the latter is always overreacting. America has never even verbally stated that England is his friend. But this is killing him inside, not knowing. Because despite all that, this really, really scares him. And he really does give a damn. He just wants England to show up again. He just wants things to go back to how they should be. He shouldn't be feeling emotional, especially if he's about to talk to someone on the phone._

_'Yo! The hero is speaking!' he answers with as much enthusiasm as he can muster, praying that his voice doesn't sound shaky or anything (because hell, he was actually on the verge of_ tearing up _a minute ago). 'How can I help you?'_

'Are you listening to the other countries? Do you believe what they say?' _says the voice on the other end. It isn't Canada. America quickly pulls the phone away from his ear and frowns. Then his eyes widen in shock. It's England's house number._

_'Who is this-?'_

'Do you think he's not going to be found? Are you like all the others? Do you think he's dead?' _The voice is high pitched, probably female._

_'I… Who…?'_

'Well? Do you believe England's not coming back?'

_The hand that's holding the phone is shaking slightly, but America doesn't drop it. '… No,' he says finally. 'England's… alive. I'm sure of it.' Is he, though?_

_There's a sigh of relief on the other end of the line._ 'So you might listen. Good. I thought you might.'

_'Who-?'_

_There's the sound of someone yelling in the distance on the other end of the line and the feminine voice mutters,_ 'I have to go.' _And then the line goes dead._

* * *

America chucks him a box of paracetamol the next morning when a hungover England walks cautiously into the kitchen. The latter is pleased to find that his reflexes are still good when he catches the box. He's also feeling a little safer at the thought of him discovering when he woke up that he did remember his knife last night after all. Of course he did. He was still sober when he left the hotel, and so there would have been no reason or excuse to leave it behind.

'You should try coffee for the hangover, dude,' America suggests as England pours himself a glass of water and gulps down a couple of pills.

'Not happening. Ever. What time is it?'

'Half nine. The meeting's not 'til ten. You coming?'

England thinks about it for a second. On the one hand, France and Scotland will be there. On the other, he's aware the other countries think he's snapped and he wants to prove to them that he can still function. He makes up his mind when America tells him that the meeting today will be back in the original building, the same one that they faced the entity in.

'Yes. Alright. I'll come.'

The floor they were on last time is still under reconstruction but it the building has been examined completely and the nations have been reassured that there should be no more 'gas leaks'. The meeting place has been relocated to a different floor. America and England are the last to arrive. All heads turn when they enter and several pairs of eyes widen; they clearly weren't expecting England to attend.

Scotland rises from his seat. 'Where were yeh last night-?'

'Where's the mirror? Is it still in the library?' England interrupts, pointedly ignoring his brother.

'The one the entity came through? Russia smashed it this morning,' Germany replies.

'Now bad things can't come through,' Russia says cheerfully.

England shivers and not from Russia's creepy tone. 'It's not the mirror specifically that was the problem. I've seen peculiar things happen in other places too. I'd say it's anything that casts a reflection.'

'Anything?' Germany is aghast.

Italy cowers in distress. 'Ve, no! Does that mean more monsters are coming?'

England sighs. 'Relax. If the culprit wanted to attack us in the same fashion, they'd have done it by now. Where are the mirror fragments, anyway? I need to see them.'

'Why?' France asks.

'To check my reflection,' England spits sarcastically. 'I didn't get a chance this morning.'

Scotland sighs. 'Why, England?'

'Because there could be… residue on them. Magical traces. I might recognise it. I might remember something. Whoever sent the entity after us definitely had something to do with my going missing, so I might figure out who did it.'

Japan nods. 'That sounds like a good idea. The glass shards are in a bag down in the library next to the mirror frame.'

'Thanks.' England turns around and heads for the door.

'Wait- hold on,' Scotland says. 'Yeh can do this later.'

'Perhaps you should stay in here, England,' Germany agrees. 'There are things we should discuss-'

'I'm good, thanks.' England hates the way they're all staring at him like it's still the moment when he killed the entity and revealed himself to be very much alive.

'England-'

He's already out the door, though. The less people he has to deal with, the better. He's still not ready to talk to them. Besides, Scotland will probably tell them every little secret, like he was doing with France last night.

England heads downstairs towards the library. As promised, he finds a black plastic back filled with the broken mirror shards, some quite large and others as big as snowflakes. He leans down and places his hand carefully on the glass, making sure not to let any of the sharp points cut into his skin, and closes his eyes, drawing out any residual magical energy. But all he can feel is his own, flowing through and flowing back into him from the mirror shards.

Wait, what? Why would his own power be radiating from the shards? He's only expelling his magic- there's no reason why he should be absorbing any of it. Unless…

The residue is _his_ magic. The entity is a product of his own power. But that's impossible. He never summoned the creature. It wasn't him. So, why…?

There's something twisted about. England naturally knows his own power better than anyone. He knows exactly what his magic feels like. The residue on the glass _is_ his magic, but it feels unfamiliar. Darker. More twisted. Like a different version of his own power.

'What…?' he whispers.

'Find anything?'

England yelps and drops the bag, accidently allowing a couple of shards to embed their way into his hands. Growling in frustration, he quickly pulls the shards out, ignoring the little squirts of blood, and turns around.

'What the bloody hell, America?!'

America winces as his eyes rest England's bloodied hands. 'Woops. Sorry, man. Didn't mean to…'

'Dammit,' England mutters, noticing that the blood has gotten onto his clean white (and clearly doomed) shirt. Well, seeing as it's already ruined, he might as well use it. He scrunches up the bottom and uses it to wipe his hands. This is the second shirt he's ruined with blood since the G8 began, and both times have been in the vicinity of the damn mirror. The other nations are going to think he was attacked again.

'Shouldn't you be in the meeting?' he asks America.

The bigger nation smirks. 'Shouldn't you?'

'No. Scotland's there.'

'Yeah, but now you're back you'll be taking his place eventually, right?'

England sighs. 'Why are you here, America?' _You seem to be following me around quite a lot._

America shrugs and grins like nothing's wrong. 'Just wondered how you were doing with little magic mission thing.'

England swallows. There's no way he can tell any of the others that the dark magic he detected was his _own_. 'Nothing useful,' he mutters, hoping Scotland won't examine the shards for himself and recognise his younger brother's power.

America shrugs. 'Ah well. We'll catch the villains eventually.'

England raises his eyebrows. 'Villains?'

'Yeah, 'cause they're the bad guys, right? I mean, they captured you. But it's totally cool 'cause the hero is on the case.'

'Right,' England says with an exasperated smile. 'Good to know.'

America flashes him a confident smile as he turns to leave. 'Sure thing, man. Anytime.'

It might be from the blood loss (though it's only minor, so probably not) or maybe because of the excess blood that he can currently see, but right before America turns to leave, England spots something which leaves him staring at the door for a good few seconds after America has left.

Just for a second there, America's eyes had flashed crimson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does that answer anything? I'm sure it probably raises further questions. My updates tend to do that. Sorry. XD
> 
> Anywho, I thought I should finally give some idea of what it was like for America during England's disappearance. I'm planning on including more flashbacks during the next chapter, though they will probably be for England.
> 
> Thanks for reading, remember to review, and byeeee!


	9. Unknown Voices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone!
> 
> Okay, sorry this chapter is a little short, but it should do for now. The whole thing is in italics because it is a flashback chapter, split between three of the characters: America, Scotland and England. Chronologically, England's part should come first, as it happened on the 5th of November, 2010, followed by America's part, which is the day after he got the weird phone call, on the 6th of November, 2012, and finally Scotland's part takes places on both the 5th and 6th of November, 2015, when England returns. But I left England's part 'til last because I like using that as an ending.
> 
> Two main points I'm gonna quickly mention:
> 
> 1) I'm glad some people have finally mentioned the rhyming couplets in the chapter titles! (I never planned it or anything. I named the first chapter 'River Calls', went on to call the second one 'Reality Falls', realised they rhymed and went, 'Hey. Rhyming couplets. I could do that. That could be a thing.' And thus, it became a thing!)
> 
> 2) Some people are wondering how Sealand is going to come into this. Like everything else I promise in this story, it will become clear. Sooner or later. Ish.
> 
> Also, this marks the first, fully identifiable sighting of a 2P where England has in fact registered who and what they are. Up until now it has just been shadows, eyes and voices but hey, I think you guys have waited long enough! ;)
> 
> Enjoy and allons-y!

_'… If... someone... can... hear... me... I'm... here... I'm... right... here...'_

* * *

_This is stupid. No one is going to answer._

_He must have just been imagining things. Perhaps he misread the number on his phone last night when the mystery caller phoned. But he knows what he saw. It was England's house number. Hell, he still has England saved as a contact, and it definitely showed up as him._

_America takes a deep breath and decides to think it through carefully like anyone else would. He's often been told that he has a habit of charging into situations without thinking. He is currently in New York and the call took place in the late evening yesterday, meaning it must have been the early hours of the morning in the UK. Who the hell would have been up at that time?_

_It's the morning now for America and he has resolved to call the number back and see if the mysterious person is still there. But why would some random person be in England's house? And what about what they said? They asked America whether he believes England's dead._

_He dials the number and waits in anxious silence for a few seconds. No one picks up. The consistent_ beep, beep… beep beep _of the phone has gone on too long. It should be reaching voicemail any second now._

_Then the beeps are cut off and a familiar voice on the other end says,_ 'Hello?'

_America's stomach sinks in disappointment. 'Hi, Scotland.'_

_'_ America? What're yeh callin' for? I am quite busy right now, so I can't talk long.'

_'Uh… well, um…'_

'Is it about those papers the foreign secretary sent me? Because I've looked through them and I honestly don't think-'

_'Dude, don't talk politics with me!'_

America knows Scotland's scowling on the other end, though he's probably a little amused. 'It's yer job, America, just like it's mine.'

_'Only by default 'cause I'm a nation,' America complains. 'That's not why I was calling.'_

'Oh?'

_'Well... uh, did someone call last night? Only, I got a weird phone call at like ten, which would have been like three in the morning or something for you.'_

_Scotland sounds confused._ 'Yeh sure it was this number?'

_'Yeah, it came as En- as the number I've got saved in my contacts.' He decides a little too late to steer clear of mentioning England. 'So, uh, you sure no one called?'_

_Scotland pauses, evidently thinking about it._ 'Not to my knowledge. I mean, I'm not not the only one here right now but I don't think Wales would have called, especially not so early in the morn- oh.'

_'Huh?'_

'So _that's_ what all that ruddy commotion was about last night! Unbelievable...'

_'What commotion? What happened?'_

_But Scotland's already dismissing it._ 'Don't worry about it, it's not anything important. Probably just a stupid prank...'

_'But what was it? Scotland-'_

'I've got to go, America. Don't fret over it, it's honestly not worth the worry. Bye.'

_'Scotland? Scotland?'_

_But the phone line has gone dead, like it did when the mystery caller phoned last night._

* * *

_The phone is ringing again, but this time it's a number that America doesn't recognise, though he can tell from the beginning that it's a UK cell number._

_It could be anyone. There are almost sixty-four million people in the United Kingdom. It could be someone who's got the wrong number, or a politician calling about the next world meeting or maybe Scotland or Wales have got a new phone or..._

_He answers the phone on the fourth ring. 'Hello?'_

'Hi.' _It's just one word, but America recognises the voice. It's the same one as last night._

_'You again?'_

'Yep. Still sure about it?'

_'About what?'_

'England. You don't believe he's dead?'

_America swallows nervously. 'No, he's too stubborn to die.'_

_The voice laughs._ 'Yeah, he is.'

_'Look, who are you? And where are you calling from this time?'_

'Hmm? Oh, this is my mobile. I probably should have used this and not the house phone last night. I got interrupted.' _It's easy to imagine the owner of the voice pouting on the other end of the line._

_America listens carefully to the voice, trying to figure out as much as he can. He's fairly certain from the tone that it's probably a girl and the accent is definitely English. But whoever it is, they haven't answered the first question, so he repeats it. 'Who are you?'_

'You probably don't know me. I just need to know for sure that you believe he's still alive. Even when everyone else starts to believe differently.'

_'How... how do you know that he's still alive?'_

'It's a long story.'

_'Listen, if you know anything at all about what's happened to England, you gotta tell me!'_

'It's really hard to explain, okay? I'll see you soon enough.'

_'Wait, what? When? I don't understand...'_

_But once again, the line is dead. America almost throws his phone. 'Why the hell do these Brits keep hanging up on me?! I need answers, dammit! This is so not fair...'_

_Who the hell is calling him? And what do they know about England? Is it true? England's still alive? But where is he? Why has he been gone so long? What happened to him?_

_His phone doesn't ring again._

* * *

_Scotland wishes the damn phone would stop ringing._

_It's eleven in the evening and although he usually stays up later than this, he's trying to get an early night. He won't be able to function much anyway, as he had had couple of beers this evening._

_He's not sure whether it's the alcohol or the drowsiness, but something inside him feels a little better. It's as if some weight has been lifted from him. No, bad phrasing. It's more like something was askew beforehand and now things are better- like getting over the flu. But it's like getting over an ailment you didn't even realise you were suffering from until you'd recovered. Like when your ears pop randomly and you can suddenly hear so much better. Something feels better. Something feels… whole. Was he ill beforehand? And why is the damn phone calling over and over again?_

_The third time the phone starts ringing, Scotland swears loudly and pushes himself out of bed, glaring distastefully at the loud black device on his bedside table. The caller ID says that it's Wales._

_'I didn't answer the first two ruddy times. Shouldn't yeh have got the message by now?' he snaps as soon as he's answers._

'Scotland!' _Wales gasps._ 'Scotland, you won't believe- oh my God!'

_Scotland sits up straight, letting his irritation slide away. 'What? What's wrong?'_

'It's- I- I just-'

_'Wales, calm down.'_

_But the other nation is hysterical._ 'I- he- he called-'

_'Who called yeh? What's going on?'_

'E… En…'

_'Wales, what the bloody hell's happening?'_

_Wales takes a few deep breaths and seemingly tries to calm down._ 'Scotland, you've g-got to meet up with m-m-me.'

_'In Cardiff?'_

'N… No… London. We've g-got to get to London as soon as p-p-possible.'

_Scotland cusses. 'I'm not going all the way to sodding London. Yeh haven't even explained what's wrong.'_

'En… Eng… England. It was England. He- he c-called,' _Wales chokes._

_A jolt of shock runs through Scotland before he sighs deeply and sinks back down on his bed, still holding the phone to his ear. 'Wales, yeh were dreaming.'_

'I wasn't asleep! I was about to g-go to bed when he rang!' _Wales takes another shaky breath then says,_ 'Oh God, it was him, it was really him, he's not dead…'

_'This person who rang,' Scotland says, dismissing any possibility that Wales might be right. 'What did they say?'_

'He said he was England! And he sounded j-just like him! He said he w-was in a phone booth or s-something, n-near the London Eye. And he was c-cold, 'cause he fell in the Thames and he n-n-needed me to come and find him.'

_'Wales, I'm sorry but-'_

'It was him. Please, Scotland. I- we have to-'

It's a prank, _Scotland's mind says_. _It's some cruel, twisted prank that's someone's playing on Wales._ _And on the anniversary of England's disappearance too._

And if it isn't? _another part of his brain suggests quietly. If this is real-_

_No. He's not allowed to get his hopes up. That new feeling he has, the one that makes him feel as if he's been cured doesn't necessarily have to be attributed to anything. It doesn't have to mean anything._

_But he'll humour Wales. The younger nation sounds so emotional right now, it seems to be the right thing to do._

_'In the morning, I'll catch a train-'_

'Scotland, he said something about hypothermia, we have to-'

_'Alright, alright,' Scotland mutters._

'How long will you take? Where are you? Edinburgh? Glasgow?'

_'Birmingham, actually. I had a conference in preparation the bloody G8-'_

'B-Birmingham?!But then it's not that far for you at all, what's the problem? You're closer than I am!'

_'I would have to drive through the night, Wales-'_

'Scotland, he might be dying-'

_'He's already dead!' Scotland shouts before he can stop himself. He closes his eyes for a second and breathes in slowly. There's silence on the other end of the line._

_'Look,' he manages to continue finally. 'Don't expect this to end well. This is probably some kind of sick joke-'_

'It was him,' _Wales insists._ 'He's back. He's alive.'

_'Alright. If that's what yeh believe, then alright. But don't get too upset when we get there and-'_

'He'll be there. It was really him. He's come home.' _Wales sounds so certain._

_Scotland sighs. 'Right, okay. I'm leaving now. But I'm not going to get there until at least five in the morning.'_

* * *

_It's still quite dark, though the sky is just beginning to lighten. Scotland doesn't care, however. He's a little overwhelmed with the second outburst of freak weather in five years._ Exactly _five years. Like last time, the snow has not settled at all- there is literally no evidence of it, aside from the buzzing media. He spends around forty minutes tracking through the streets within the London Eye's vicinity, on the lookout for phone booths. There are a few, scattered here and there, but most are just foggy from condensation and are empty when he peers inside them._

_Scotland forces down any disappointment that creeps into his head and tries to tell himself that he knew it was hopeless from the moment this began. This feeling he's been experiencing for a few hours, like some illness- or more like an emptiness- has disappeared doesn't have to be relevant. It doesn't have to signify anything returning. But it's familiar. It's how Scotland used to feel, back when he wasn't really conscious of it._

_It's the connection he shares with Wales and England. The three have life forces tied together for being a part of Britain. Or perhaps it's because of the magical ability that runs in their family, although the former is more likely as they do not share it with Ireland anymore, not like they did before he became independent. Either way, Scotland and Wales felt it when England disappeared. Something in the connection vanished too. They felt his loss. They could no longer sense him._

_And now there's a sense of completion, like a hole has been filled._

_Scotland spots another phone booth, not too far from a railing beside Westminster Bridge, giving a good view of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament across the river. There's a dark shape inside the phone booth, pressed up against the glass at the bottom. Some drunk who probably got a little too tipsy celebrating the fifth, or maybe a homeless person. That's what most people would think._

_Scotland crosses over to it cautiously, eyes fixed on the silhouette inside the booth. It's not moving at all. From the angle, it looks as if whoever it is has fallen asleep inside the phone booth. The condensation is obscuring any other view of the figure._

_Scotland raps on it tentatively, thinking it's probably best to wake whoever it is up. But the figure doesn't stir at all. Sighing and mentally preparing himself for what he knows will just be some random human, he pushes all sense of hope away so that he won't be disappointed._

It's not him. It's not him. It's not him.

_Scotland opens the door and peers inside._

_England is slumped against the glass, completely still. His clothes look damp and his skin is so very pale. He's thinner too, with dark shadows under his closed eyes and his hair is more unkempt than ever. Clenched loosely in his hand is a long and very sharp looking dagger with a handsome green hilt, resting almost protectively over his chest._

_Scotland staggers back and blinks several times to ensure that what he's seeing is real. After around thirty seconds of standing there, trying to grasp the fact that this is reality, Scotland steps forwards again and leans down. He reaches out to his little brother with a shaky hand._

_England's skin is freezing. Now that he's close, Scotland can see that England is moving a little- he's shivering rather violently and mild convulsions run through his body every so often. His breath is coming out in quiet, ragged little gasps and his lips have a blue tinge. Hypothermia, like Wales said._

_'Oh God, oh God, oh God,' Scotland mutters, still too dazed to think straight. He acts on instinct, quickly pulling the damp jacket off his younger brother and then taking his own one off to wrap around the other nation. He then places two fingers under England's jaw, pressing them against his throat to find a pulse._

_England's heartbeat is very weak and when Scotland tries lifting up one of his eyelids, those familiar green eyes are dull and unfocused. Scotland is finally able to gather his thoughts. He pulls his phone out his pocket and calls 999._

'999, which services do you require?'

_'Ambulance, please.'_

'What's your emergency?'

_'My- my brother's got hypothermia. He fell in the Thames, um, a few hours ago, I think. I've only just found him. He's unconscious.'_

'Names, please.'

_'I'm Alistair Kirkland and he's Arthur.'_

'Where are you?'

_All through the phone call, Scotland keeps England in a vice-like grip, pressed to his chest. And in England's right hand, the knife is still clenched weakly in his fingers._

* * *

_England's face is wet. For one horrifying moment, he thinks this is because he's crying._

_He is jolted awake and the first thing he notices is the coldness on his face. His whole head is soaked, however, so it can't just be from tears. He hasn't given in emotionally or anything. Why on earth would he? The pain is endurable. He can live with it. His tormentor hasn't done anything too cruel. Things could be worse. Oh yes. It could definitely get worse._

_'Rise and shine,' says the voice, childlike and falsely innocent. 'Want to come out and play now?'_

_England blinks, trying to shake the water that was just thrown on him off his face. 'Wh-what?' he splutters._

_His reflection, the owner of the voice, comes into focus. It smiles cheerfully and waves. 'Hi.'_

_England glares right back. 'Who... what the hell are you? Where am I?'_

_The reflection chuckles. 'Home. A new home for you.'_

_It leans in, a twisted smile etched across its face. England's vision is finally settling properly. It's definitely a reflection. But there's no mirror or anything above him, and even if there was, why would his reflection have a mind of its own anyway? No, this thing is an actual being. A being that looks so much like him, but with electric blue eyes._

_'I'm you, get it?' the other England giggles. 'And you're me.'_

_England just stares at him._

_Other England begins unstrapping the binds around his prisoner. 'Come along. There's still time to show you the big event.'_

_'How... how are you me...?'_

_Other England pouts. 'You don't want me to ruin the surprise, do you?' he asks in a voice as sweet as honey, but with all the danger of a swarming hive of bees._

_England gulps and tries pushing himself off the table. Perhaps if he manages to deck his doppelgänger, he can figure out a way out of this darkened room and get out of here._

_Other England claps his hands in delight as England manages to sit up. 'Great! Let's go!'_

_England takes a second to rub his eyes. They're still burning from the last time he was conscious. He wants to do something about the pain in his chest too, but he doesn't want his tormentor to know that he's suffering. He's very cold, too. His clothes aren't completely dry yet, so he can't have washed up on the riverbank that long ago. He should probably get changed out of them. The burning in his chest has kept his mind occupied, so much so that he hasn't truly acknowledged how cold he is until now._

_Other England reaches out and grabs England's hand. England stiffens. The skin on his doppelgänger is cold too. Like a corpse._

_'It's almost over,' Other England says. 'We should hurry.'_

_Despite his heavy head, burning chest and weakened legs, England is pulled to his feet and immediately thrown into a race across the room towards a steel door._

_'W-wait-'_

_Every time he trips over his own feet and almost collapses, he's pulled further forward. Other England seems to be either unaware or uninterested in England's weakened state._

Remember, remember... _Other England's words from earlier echo inside England's head._

_'This is the fun part,' Other England tells England as he unlocks the door in a flash, throwing it open as if it's made of paper and not steel. 'I come to see it every year.'_

_Beyond the door is a spiral staircase, going up. Other England wastes no time bounding up the steps, pulling his extremely exhausted doppelgänger behind him._

_'They've lit it like they do each time,' Other England continues. 'It was only just starting when I found you by the river, a few hours ago. It should be nice and strong now. Burning bright.'_

_England can't make out the smile on the other's face in the darkness, but he knows it's there. He concentrates as hard as he can on putting one foot in front of the other, lifting his legs painfully for each step up the staircase. He can't fall down. He can't show weakness._

_They finally reach the top of the staircase and Other England throws open another door, followed by a gust of wind sweeping through in an instant. England shivers involuntarily. It just got even colder. And yet the air from outside is warm. Far too warm for November. How can it be hot and cold at the same time? To top it off, there's an overwhelming noise coming through the door. The roaring of flames._

_They both step out onto a rooftop. The first thing England notices is the lack of colour above. There aren't any stars. There aren't any fireworks either, not like there were when he last looked up at the night sky, just hours beforehand._

_'Don't look at that,' Other England says, rolling his eyes. 'That's boring. Look at that.'_

_He points to his right, and England turns his head to see. Even without focusing properly, he can still make out the ominous orange glow against the black canvas._

_The Thames is glittering with the dancing flames along its riverbanks. Even further than that are the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben- or at least, the spot where they should be. But they're not there. There's just a huge mass of flames. The fire doesn't stop there, however; it's spread as far as the eye can see, and as England swings his head around he can see it's in every direction too. He is standing on one of the few buildings that hasn't been completely engulfed._

_London is alight. The whole city is on fire._

_'Remember, remember,' Other England says._

_'The fifth of November,' England whispers._

_'It's mesmerizing, isn't it?' Other England steps towards the edge of the building and looks out at the flames. He seems to be showing no sign of pain. Shouldn't the burning capital be hurting him too? Perhaps it is, but he's hiding it. Or maybe he's disconnected altogether. Whatever the reason, England wants this all to stop._

_'Make it end,' he hisses. 'Whatever you've done, make it end!'_

_Other England looks back in confusion, still smiling. 'Whatever do you mean? The people did this, not me.'_

_'We are the people,' England spits. 'If you are truly me, you should know that.'_

_Other England laughs. 'What does it matter, anyway? Why stop this? It's a national celebration. And look, it's your so called snow!'_

_He's right. England hasn't noticed until now, but the white flakes are once again drifting down around him. But he knows exactly what they really are. What they were all along._

_Other England gives a crooked grin. 'I understand that you celebrate today as well. But in a bit of a different way.'_

_'This has to stop,' England snarls. He takes a step towards his doppelgänger and doubles over in pain, wrapping one arm around his chest and the other hand flying up to cover his mouth. He coughs violently and when he pulls his hand away, the skin is covered in blood._

_'You'll get used to it,' Other England says without even the slightest hint of sympathy or concern in his voice. He lifts his hand up and lets the little white flakes to settle on his skin. 'It's fascinating what a little mental manipulation can do. Sometimes you can't see things for what they really are. Sometimes you see what isn't even there.'_

_He bends down so that he is level with his counterpart and holds out his hand to show England the snow. 'But you can see it for what it really is now, can't you? The spell is broken on you.'_

_England, still clutching his chest and trying to wipe away the blood from around his mouth, winces as he gazes down at the white flakes resting on Other England's palm. Now that he can see it properly, it seems so obvious that it's not snow. Snow would have melted. All this does is leave grey smears._

_'It's funny how the two can sometimes be confused, isn't it?' Other England says. 'It's not snow. It's ash.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, as I said before, the final flashback happened long before the other two, but I put it at the end because I thought that would be a good way to wrap the chapter up.
> 
> I love your theories, by the way. Some of you are doing a great job of figuring it out, and I enjoy reading your ideas.
> 
> Remember to review, and I'll see you all next time!


	10. Inevitable Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ENGLAND!
> 
> Well, it's his unofficial birthday. And I'm probably not getting this up before midnight here in the UK, so happy belated sort of birthday, England! I said in one of my stories that I updated on this day last year that celebrating it on the fifth of November would be cooler cuz of the fireworks and everything, but I'm sure England's probably not altogether fond of Guy Fawkes Night after the events in this story.
> 
> Anyway, one of my reviewers, ThatStrangeDutchGirl, has created some truly fantastic fanart, which you can find here: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Ash-Song-Remember-remember-603530178
> 
> Also, England's in the spotlight of some psychological, confrontational stuff this chapter, which I apologise for. More to England than you guys if I'm honest. I should try being nice to my country, especially as it's kind of his birthday. Ish. I also have included Canada being the kind-hearted precious ray of perfection that he is, because England could really do with some emotional support. Got a lot of Scotland and America angst too. I think pretty much all of my chapters are gonna have angst and it should just be accepted as normal in this story. XD
> 
> Answering one of the big questions in this chapter too, which I feel pretty good about. ;)
> 
> Enjoy, and allons-y!

England's eyes snap open.

Okay. He's reached his inevitable conclusion and he accepts it fairly calmly for something so worrying. He is definitely, hopelessly, undeniably and completely insane.

He's not even entirely sure he was actually asleep when he saw the latest vision, but whether or not he was truly unconscious, it's over now. He's pressed up against the far corner of the library, hidden from the door by several shelves. He remembers resisting the urge to leave the building after the little incident with America. It would have been so easy, after all- the others are all upstairs in the meeting. No one would have noticed him leave. But he chose to back away from the mirror shards and take refuge in the corner instead. His drunken thoughts from the night before had flooded through his mind about how tired he felt.

And he _is_ tired. So, so tired. All these nightmares and all the running. And from what?

The twisted image of the other England flashes inside his mind and he buries his head in his hands, completely forgetting that he cut them earlier on the glass.

'Dammit,' England mutters, quickly realising his mistake as he walks back over to the mirror shard and observes his face, now smeared in blood. He wipes it away with his sleeve, no longer caring about how much blood he gets on his shirt. This day is just getting worse and worse. There's so much red. Red on his hands, red on his face, red in America's eyes-

England freezes, clenching his fists. It's just more proof that he's insane. America's eyes are and have always been blue.

England can't have been unconscious for long, or someone would probably have come to check on him at some point. Then again, perhaps not. England doesn't seem to recall many of the other nations caring about him very much.

He therefore jumps a little when he hears a knock on the door. It can't be America or Scotland or else they would have just barged in. Maybe it's someone like Japan...

'Yes?' he asks.

The door opens and for a second England thinks he must be wrong because it appears to be America standing in the doorway. Then he focuses properly and realises it is in fact Canada instead.

The younger nation smiles. 'Hi, England. How are you doing?'

'Uh... well, I don't appear to be having any luck here.'

Canada winces a little as he spots the blood. 'Looks like it. Did you cut yourself on the glass?'

'Your brother walked in and made me jump.'

Canada sighs. 'Yeah, America has a habit of doing that.'

England leans down and begins placing the glass shards back in the bag they were being stored in.

'Scotland was really concerned about where you were last night,' Canada continues.

England doesn't say anything. The fact that Scotland was worrying about him doesn't change anything.

'Scotland said that you've been disappearing a lot over the last few days, especially at night time.' Canada sounds a little hesitant about bringing this up but it's clear there's something he wants to say. England doesn't look up at the other country just yet. He just carries on putting the shards into the bag.

'You're... uh... you're not too happy about being here, eh?'

Finally, England glances up at Canada. 'Hmm?'

'Here, with the rest of us. You seem... uncomfortable.' On the contrary, Canada seems uncomfortable himself at mentioning this.

'Well... I... I don't mean any offence by it...' England mutters lamely.

Canada bends down and helps England pick up the last of the shards. 'We know. It's okay. We're just really glad you're alive.'

England blinks. 'Right... thanks.' He doesn't know why he's so surprised at these kind words. Canada's always had a talent for putting things in a nice way. England honestly isn't sure why he was expecting any different. But for some reason, it's quite easy to imagine the words becoming hostile.

'It must be strange for you, coming back to this,' Canada laughs quietly. 'I mean, everyone was so surprised to see you and everything... that must have been weird.'

There are several weird things happening in England's life right now, and this isn't even reaching his top ten.

'It must be stranger for the rest of you,' England responds. 'After all, I was supposedly dead.'

'We did think you were dead, yeah,' Canada admits, looking sincerely sorry. 'We, uh, kind of had proof-'

'Scotland told you all. I know,' England murmurs.

Canada appears to be quite awkward now. 'But... you're obviously not dead. It just doesn't make any sense.'

Memories of his blue-eyed doppelgänger and the burning London cause England to think that perhaps there is an explanation, but it's not one that he's comfortable with in the slightest and it's certainly not one that anyone will believe.

'How exactly did it transpire?' he asks. 'My death announcement.'

'Well... there was a world meeting after about three years. Germany announced it- after all, he's always the one we rely on to take charge of discussions and speeches. Scotland provided the evidence. There was some surprise, of course, but... but not much. A lot of people had already jumped to this conclusion prior to the official announcement. We didn't know what else we could do so we...'

'Accepted it,' England finishes, feeling hollow.

'Except America didn't,' Canada says unexpectedly.

England drops the mirror shard he's holding. It clatters to the ground, snapping in half. He's heard about this before, of course, but he's not sure he ever thought it to be true.

'He never believed it for one second, even after the announcement. He got quite mad, actually. He said we were all just giving up.'

'Well... you all were... weren't you?' England says very quietly, immediately wishing he'd kept those words to himself.

'Not like that,' Canada says sadly. 'It wasn't 'giving up'. That's not how it was. But America, he wouldn't listen. He said he knew you were still alive. And that, England, is why if you're going to trust anyone, you should trust him.'

'Huh?'

'None of us are blind,' Canada says in a kind voice. 'We know you're afraid to be around us right now, but we don't really know why. And I just want you to know that it's okay. There's obviously a good reason, even if you haven't figured it out yourself. And it's fine.'

'Canada...'

'But I just want to say one thing: America had more hope for you than any of us. And we can see the way you look at him, like you think he's going to hurt you. And I know you can't help it, and I'm definitely not blaming you for anything. I just don't want you blaming him for anything either. He really missed you. We all did.'

England tries to avoid eye contact with Canada because he knows his eyes are dangerously close to tearing up. This wouldn't be the first time Canada has seen him cry. Hell, this wouldn't even be the first time Canada has seen him cry over something involving America. But he doesn't want it to happen again. He doesn't want to cry at all.

'Come on,' Canada says softly. 'We should both go back to the meeting.'

England wants to protest but after Canada went out of his way to make him feel better, he's not so sure he should refuse. So the two of them finish putting the shards in the bag and then they stand up and head towards the door.

* * *

_'There's one big announcement we thought it's probably about time we made,' Germany calls out as the world meeting in Paris draws to a close. The nations are all tired from a long week of meetings and discussions and as this is the final day, many of them have shown little to no enthusiasm in participating in any debates._

_A few around the room groan at the thought of having to stay any longer just because Germany has one last thing to say. America himself keeps yawning loudly, hoping that he'll be excused. He's too tired today and he simply wants to go back home and sleep. Maybe get a McDonald's at the airport, watch a couple of movies on the plane, and then just totally chill out._

_Germany sighs, as if knowing that no one is really paying attention, so he says the words that he knows will get everyone to listen. 'It's about England.'_

_The other nations, most of whom were rising from their seats in an attempt to sneak out the room, all freeze and the chatter dies immediately. America sits up straight in his seat, leaning forwards, exhaustion forgotten._

_'As you all know, it has been two years and eleven months since England was last sighted,' Germany says. 'And, well, we've all had our different theories as to what might have happened to him. But... there's one we feel it's time to accept as reality.'_

No... don't even go there. _There are warning bells ringing in America's head._

_'Many of us have begun to suspect that this may be the case and it's been concluded that it is true.'_

Don't say it. Don't you dare say it.

_'The fact of the matter is...' Germany looks torn between finishing the announcement and giving up on it. It's clear he doesn't wish to say any of this._

_'The fact of the matter is that Wales and I knew from the beginning,' Scotland finishes. 'We could both feel it, but neither of wanted to admit it to each other, the rest of the world, or even ourselves for that matter. But we've spent almost three years doing something that we knew from the start would receive no result, and I've spent months tryin' to be a little more honest 'bout it. But a lot of yeh know that when countries are tied together via unions, we can feel each others' life forces. And I haven't felt his since the fifth of November, 2010.'_

_'So... you only decided to tell us now?'_

_'You mean we've been searching for nothing this whole time?'_

_'Are you sure? England can't just be...'_

_'No...'_

_'I wanted to be wrong,' Scotland says. 'But I'm not. England really is dead.'_

_There are a few weakened protests and a few scattered sighs of resignation around the room, but no one seems to be prominently denying it. America clenches his fists, trying not to feel too disgusted with the other nations. They're tired and all they wanted was a definite answer. This is a way out of the mystery for all of them. An end to the search._

_America isn't going to take it. Not at all._

_'So that's it, then?' he says loudly, not bothering to smile and come up with any jokes. Screw that. Screw everything. 'What is it, you're just gonna say 'oh, nice knowing him' and move on?'_

_There's a hardened scowl on Scotland's face. 'No, we're gonna hold a bloody memorial. Is there a problem?'_

_'Uh yeah, there is, actually,' America replies, narrowing his eyes. ''Cause you'd think that after even less than three years, which is_ nothing _to a country, you might still have a little hope and do a bit more for your own_ family _.'_

_Scotland pushes his chair back and gets to his feet, his furious eyes fixed on America. 'What the hell do yeh know, yank? He was my brother-'_

_'Exactly. So maybe you try harder to find him instead of just giving up-'_

_'He was my brother,' Scotland repeats, 'and a part of Great Britain. So I can sense it. I wouldn't expect yeh to understand-'_

_'Will you stop talking about him in past tense already!' America yells. 'If you care about him even a little then you shouldn't just give up on him like that! This is England we're talking about!'_

_Scotland throws his chair out the way and strides round the table until he reaches America. 'Yeh're not the one who can feel it, yeh bastard! Yeh're not the one who can actually_ feel _that he's dead, every single sodding day, and yeh're not the one who's constantly having to think about how it might have happened and what even caused it and whether it was an accident or whether someone- whether someone_ did _something_ _to him, so don't yeh dare lecture me about just giving up-'_

_France, Germany and Japan are pulling the two apart immediately and Germany quickly calls out, 'Meeting dismissed!'_

_America angrily shakes off their hold and grabs his briefcase from the floor by his seat, storming from the room before anyone tries to get him to calm down, or points out how hypocritical it is for him to be screaming at others about giving up because he has told England to drop dead plenty of times in the past (but don't any of these idiots realise he never meant it?)._

_He feels like punching a wall. He was_ always _jokingly telling England to drop dead. It was his running gag. He used to slip it into almost every conversation he had with the other nation. He probably used it in the last conversation they ever had._

_He doesn't leave the building because he knows that everyone else is doing so right now and he doesn't want to see anyone right now. So he finds an empty room on the floor above and slams the door shut behind him, quickly pushing aside a stand with a whiteboard on it and slumping down on a chair, resting his head in his hands._

_There's a knock at the door. America doesn't answer. It's probably Japan or Canada, or maybe it's Scotland, looking for a fight. Which is good, because a vindictive part of America really does want to fight him right now-_

_'Wow, you really lost your cool.'_

_America's eyes widen in shock. That's not Japan or Canada or Scotland. That's not any of them. It's the voice from the phone. The British, high pitched one. The person who hasn't called back in months and months._

_'You still stick to what you originally thought though. That's good. Can I come in?'_

_'You...' America is on his feet in an instant, quickly striding over to the door. He swings it open without a moment's hesitation and stares down at owner of the voice._

_Familiar. That's the first thing America registers. The second thing that occurs to him is that he was wrong in assuming that the owner of the voice was female because of their high-pitched voice. He's not female at all._

_He's a child._

* * *

'The two of yeh arrived together,' Scotland mutters to America as the next presentation is being transferred to the projection board for Russia's speech. 'So yeh must know more than we do 'bout where my little brother disappeared to last night.'

'He stayed at my place,' America replies with his typical wide grin. 'I found him getting pretty wasted at a bar and figured I should do the right thing, as I am the hero and all.'

'Why didn't yeh just bring him back to the hotel?' Scotland asks, secretly relieved that England didn't end up sleeping on a park bench somewhere.

'He didn't want to go back. Did you guys fall out or something?'

Scotland frowns. 'What makes yeh say that?'

'He... uh, he said quite a lot of stuff while I was bringing him to my home,' America answers, looking a little awkward. 'He probably won't even remember much of it, he was so out of it at the time. He probably never would have said any of it in front of me or anyone else if he was sober. He mentioned something about you and France.'

'Right...' Yes, of course. England was probably quite pissed off about Scotland and France talking behind his back. Scotland hates to think about how England will likely react when he finds out all the things the G8 have been saying about him while he's been skiving the meetings. Not that he should be offended by any of it, as it's pretty much all been discussions on how they might go about helping him, but England wouldn't recognise sympathy or concern if they danced naked in front of him.

'He said you betrayed him,' America adds hesitantly.

Scotland sighs. 'He would put it like that. Talking behind his back was out of order, I'll admit, but I'm just trying to bloody help him.'

'That's not exactly what he was upset about. He said there was something else you did.' America isn't smiling anymore. On the contrary, this is one of those rare occasions where he is completely serious.

'And what exactly is that?' Scotland asks, trying to think of something else he might have done to upset his younger brother.

America's blue eyes narrow. 'Same thing I was pissed as hell about. Or are you just gonna pretend it never happened?'

Scotland's feeling a little uneasy now. 'Yeh gonna elaborate?'

'He's probably talking about your attitude towards searching for England while he was missing,' Russia says cheerfully from across the room as he heads over to the projection board. America and Scotland both jump in surprise, unaware that anyone could hear their conversation. But then again, this _is_ Russia, and he always has a creepy way of unnerving people in almost any situation. A few of the other countries tilt their heads in confusion, not quite catching the context of this discussion, but they're mostly too absorbed in the notes they've taken from the last speech.

'That's impossible,' Scotland says quietly. 'I haven't told him much about it. He doesn't know I called off the search.'

America raises his eyebrows. 'You sure about that?'

Scotland feels himself getting angry. 'What did yeh tell him?'

'I didn't say anything. He was upset about it before I found him. That's probably why he was getting wasted-'

'And how exactly did yeh just happen to find him?' Scotland interrupts, his voice getting a little louder. 'Out of all the bars in this ruddy city, yeh just happened to enter the bar that he was in?'

'He wasn't that far away from the hotel-'

'Yeh've been following him around, haven't yeh?' Scotland continues. 'Like when yeh ran out after him during the meeting the other day.'

'So I wanted to catch up with my long lost friend, what's the big deal?'

'Yeh were never exactly friends,' Scotland accuses. 'Yeh've said it yerself plenty of times.'

'Don't turn this around,' America argues. 'Iggy's pissed off at _you_.'

'Yeah, and he's scared to death of _yeh_ ,' Scotland replies icily. 'Yeh wanna explain what that's about?'

America's eyes widen. 'How am I supposed to know? What do you want me to say?'

'I want yeh to tell me why my brother looks like he thinks he's going to be _murdered_ every time yeh're near him,' Scotland snaps. 'All I want is to help England and if he thinks he's not safe, which he does, then-'

'What, and you think _I'm_ a threat?' America says incredulously. 'You have got to be kidding me.'

'Yeh were always so certain that England wasn't dead,' Scotland says. 'Like yeh knew something we didn't.'

'And _you_ were so certain he _was_ dead,' America shoots back. 'And _you_ just gave up.'

'It wasn't like that and yeh know it,' Scotland hisses, trying to ignore the guilt flaring inside him and the worry that England might have discovered and misinterpreted this.

America's phone beeps with a new message. Still glaring at Scotland, he reaches into his pocket and pulls it out. All at once, the angry look disappears and a rather hopeful one takes its place. He stands up, quickly shoving all the paperwork in front of him on the table into his briefcase.

'America, what do you think you're doing?' Germany demmands.

America grins. It's almost as if the serious, angry look he had a minute ago was never there in the first place. 'Sorry, dudes! I've got a thing to get to!'

'What? No you haven't! Sit down!' Germany snaps.

'Don't worry, I'll be here tomorrow- probably. See ya!'

'America-san,' Japan calls out, looking exasperated as America races out the door.

'Wunderbar,' Germany grumbles. 'Why do we even bother calling it a G8 anymore? It's almost impossible for us all to be here at once, apparently.'

'We might as well call it the G7 then,' Russia says pleasantly.

'More like G6,' France comments, quickly doing a headcount.

'What? Who else is missing?'

After a few seconds of trying to remember, France says, 'Oui, of course. Canada went to go on check on Angleterre about ten minutes ago.'

As if on cue, the door to the meeting room swings open and Canada steps in, followed by a very uncomfortable looking England. He quickly glances around at the other nations, though Scotland notices that he and France are completely ignored.

Canada smiles warmly, despite the tension England is clearly exuding. 'Hey, everyone. We're back.'

'Find anything?' Japan asks.

England shakes his head. 'Nothing. It was useless.'

'Oh well. Worth a shot!' Italy says optimistically.

'Where's America?' Canada asks.

'He had somewhere he needed to be, and apparently it was more important than the G8,' Germany grumbles.

Scotland quickly scrutinises England's appearance. 'Yeh're covered in blood. _Again_. How is it yeh _always_ manage to end up getting covered in- wait. Were yeh attacked? Is there another one of those creatures running around?'

'No. It was an accident,' England mutters. 'Just one of the glass shards.'

''Onestly, Anglettere,' France sighs, 'you can be so 'opless.' There isn't much of a sting in his words. France, like Scotland, is probably feeling guilty about last night.

'Wales arrived in the States this morning,' Scotland mentions, wondering if perhaps the mention of the third oldest brother will possibly reassure England in anyway. He was always the one England was closest to, after all. But England says nothing and still refuses to look at him.

'It's good that you are here, England,' Germany says. 'There are things we need to discuss.'

'I'm not part of the G8 anymore,' England replies, his voice emotionless. 'I'm sure you can talk about all these matters with Scotland.'

'Actually, this isn't to do with the meeting at all,' Germany continues. 'This is about you.'

'And your well being,' Japan adds.

England is silent for a second. No visible reaction crosses his face. Finally, he says, 'As I said, I'm sure you can discuss these matters with Scotland.'

'Huh?'

'He seems to have no problem discussing my... personal issues behind my back.'

Scotland feels like slamming his head against the table. 'England... we're trying to figure this out. Yer disappearance, yer return, the amnesia, that creature, the damage, all the important things. I just thought it would be best if everyone's on the same page here.'

England rolls his eyes. 'The damage is the least of anyone's problems. The walls are already under reconstruction and the mirror can probably be replaced-'

'Not the damage to the building, England. We mean the damage to you,' Russia says calmly. He's the only one in the room who's actually smiling. Even Italy looks rather solemn.

Finally, some emotion crosses England's face. He looks like he's just been smacked. 'Wh... what?'

'You know what I mean,' Russia replies, still smiling. 'You heard us yesterday, didn't you? I saw you quickly hide behind that pillar when I was chatting with Germany, Japan and France.'

England's eyes are wide, and Germany, France and Japan look horrified. Unlike Russia, they clearly weren't aware that they had been overheard.

'What's he talking about?' Scotland demands loudly.

'We were discussing England's current mental state,' Russia says casually, completely immune to the growing unease around the room. 'And about how he's clearly not comfortable with telling us everything because he doesn't quite trust us.'

You could hear a pin drop in the room during the silence that follows these words. The majority of the G8 look thoroughly mortified that Russia was so upfront about it in the presence of England himself.

England seems frozen, rooted to the spot, though when Scotland looks closely he can see his little brother is shaking slightly. 'England-' he begins but the other Brit has already turned around and raced out the door in the blink of an eye.

The meeting room immediately erupts in chaos.

'What the hell did yeh say all of that for?' Scotland shouts at Russia.

Russia blinks innocently. 'Someone had to.'

'You knew he was there... you knew he could hear us,' Germany says, looking furious. 'Why the hell didn't you tell us? We would-'

'- have never said any of it if you'd known he was there,' Russia finishes. His voice is still cheerful but his words are chilling. 'Exactly. That's the problem. If you want England to trust and confide in us then perhaps _we_ should all start being honest with _him_.'

'What exactly did he overhear yeh saying about him?' Scotland says in a dangerously low voice. He understands where Russia's coming from but he detests how the other nation went about handling the situation.

'We... we were just talking about how surprised we were because that England-san was alive, given that we all thought he was dead,' Japan says quietly.

'And that the creature was definitely after 'im... and those around 'im,' France adds awkwardly.

'And that he is very different,' Russia finishes. He clearly has no problem admitting what was said, unlike the other three.

Germany clears his throat. 'Where will England have gone now?'

Scotland gets his anger under control as best he can. 'God knows. He disappears all the ruddy time, and always comes back under his own conditions. Knowing him, he'll only be found if he wants to be found, and that ain't very bloody likely.'

* * *

Damn Russia. _Damn him._

And yet, as weird as it sounds, England's glad that at least Russia has the decency to say what he's thinking to England's face instead of whispering behind his back like everyone else does. The downside is that the cat's really out of the bag now.

And where to go?

Wales is supposed to be here, isn't he? Scotland said that Wales arrived in the States this morning. Will he actually be in Washington right now? No, it doesn't matter anyway. Wales is just as much to blame as Scotland for the abandoned search for England. Besides, if Wales meets up with England then he'll just call Scotland and the rest of the G8 and they'll find him-

And England still hasn't properly addressed the main issue: the demon, wherever the hell it is right now, is _not_ just a hallucination. And what about France? He has shown no indication that he's the enemy today but that doesn't mean he isn't just biding his time...

England has to find somewhere to hide. Somewhere the others won't immediately think of.

_He said he knew you were still alive... America had more hope for you than any of us..._

Canada's words ring softly in his head, and in the spur of the moment England has his answer. He can go to America's house. No one will suspect that he'll willingly go there; after all, everyone thinks he's terrified of America. The only reason they probably think he stayed there last night was because he was too drunk to say otherwise.

Besides, he wants to know exactly why America was so certain that England was still alive. This can't just be because of his childishness or his hero complex. And America also seems to be popping up out of nowhere when England thinks he is alone. There's definitely something America isn't telling him and England is going to find out what it is.

* * *

It's about midday when England reaches America's house. He remembers Germany saying that America had suddenly left the meeting because he had a thing to get to, which means he's probably not here right now, unless the thing in question happens to be at his house. England doesn't exactly have a spare key or anything but he knows that a little bit of magic will have the door open in no time. He can just wait here until America gets back, then he can ask the questions he needs to ask and then he'll be on his way...

His stomach is twisting uncomfortably as he reaches the front door and he feels terribly jumpy. But now is not the time to be afraid. He's going to have to figure out how to get this irrational fear under control; it's completely embarrassing how everyone seems to have noticed that he's afraid of America. America _himself_ has probably noticed.

He knocks on the door, just to be sure. There is a chance that America is here right now. But now he's starting to panic at the thought. He remembers the flash of red in America's eyes this morning and he resists the urge to turn around and run away.

When the door opens unexpectedly, England almost jumps out of his skin.

'Iggy?' America says in surprise, eyes wide. _Blue eyes,_ England notes, relief quickly sweeping over him.

'Good, you're here,' they both say in unison, then stare at each other in shock.

'You... wanted me to come?'

America scratches the back of his head and grins sheepishly. 'I was gonna try and figure out a way to tell you, and this is a pretty good opportunity.'

'Tell me what?'

'Stuff. Stuff you probably need to know. Why did you come?'

'I want answers,' England says, crossing his arms.

America nods, still looking quite surprised. 'Right. Okay. Yeah. You should probably come in, dude.'

The house holds tell tale signs of company. There is an extra pair of shoes by the door, too small to be America's, and at the end of the hallway there's a light blue coat hanging up on the rack, also not America's size.

'Is... is someone else here?' England asks hesitantly.

'Um, yeah,' America replies. 'That's kind of the reason I need to explain some things to you.'

England feels uneasy about who might be here with them, but he decides to get the questions out the way while it's still just America who can hear him and before he has to greet whoever it is. 'I need to know how you knew I was still alive. And please spare me the 'because I'm the hero' speech.'

America smiles. 'Well that's just it, man. That's what I was gonna talk to you about.'

'You- you were?'

'Yeah. I know you were still alive 'cause someone told me.'

'Someone told you?' England asks, shocked. 'Who?'

America looks really happy, as if he's overjoyed to be telling England the truth. 'Your brother.'

England groans, visibly disappointed. 'Don't make me laugh. Scotland was the one going around telling everyone the exact opposite.'

'Not him,' America says, grinning.

'Who, Wales? Ireland? Wales probably went with whatever Scotland said and Ireland probably _wanted_ me dead. There's no way either of them would have told you-'

'Not _them_ , either,' America laughs. 'You really don't get it, do you?'

England is just thoroughly confused. 'Well who was it, then? Who could have possibly known that I was still alive-?'

'It was me,' says a new voice, young and childlike, from the doorway to the living room, directly behind England. He turns around quickly and his eyes widen in disbelief as he catches sight of the figure standing there.

'Hey,' Sealand says, smirking. 'Long time no see, jerk.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Voila. An answer. XD
> 
> I did promise them eventually, after all. ;) I also did promise that Sealand would be important.
> 
> So, apologies for England being thrown into all that. I do kind of want to establish that the other nations want to help him though, and I figured that unlike the others (who have all been treading rather tentatively around the subject), Russia would probably be the most blunt, and in a way, the most helpful.
> 
> It is also canon that America has frequently told England to drop dead, though it's implied that he of course doesn't really mean it. It was my excuse to throw even more angst in. I give them hell and I relish it. ;)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and remember to review!


	11. Pleading Cries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, everyone. It is twenty past 2 in the morning here in the UK and I couldn't give less of a damn. ^^
> 
> I've created a poll on my profile on FanFiction.net (https://www.fanfiction.net/u/4704264/) where you can go and vote up to three of your favourite tv shows/books/movies out of the major fandoms you find on Tumblr. I know there are many I've excluded (some of my fandoms aren't even on there) but there's an 'other' option if you don't see yours there. ^^ Aside from Homestuck (which I included because I know it's big on Tumblr and it tends to go hand in hand with Hetalia), I am in every fandom on that list. And I mean in the fandoms. Like, over the top, sold my soul, far beyond the point of saving, life completely consumed, total obsession XD If any of you guys feel the same way about anything on the list, I am always available to chat when fandoms are at stake. I'm extremely socially awkward but I never shut up when it's fandoms. My Tumblr is a multifandom mess XD
> 
> Anyway, this chappy should provide more answers. And not too much angst, which is a little weird for me. Actually, aside from the England flashbacks, I might even go as far as to call this chapter... happy. Or at least, happier than the other chapters XD
> 
> So, uh, no warnings. Except for the flashbacks, like I said.
> 
> Allons-y!

_'Please... I think they're going to kill me... I can't do this much longer...'_

* * *

' _I know you,' America says. 'I've seen you before.'_

_The child smirks and folds his arms. 'Of course you know me. I never fail to show up to a world meeting! I'm the great nation of Sealand!'_

_'Yeah, I've heard of you. You're that naval port of Iggy's that tried declaring itself a country, right?'_

_The smile on Sealand's face freezes. 'I_ am _a country!' he insists, pouting._

_America holds up his hands. 'Okay, dude. If you say so. That aside, you know something about England, right? You were the one who kept calling me up.'_

_Sealand is smiling again. 'Yep! That was me. I was staying at England's house the first time I rang up and I thought I'd do it late at night so we wouldn't be disturbed. But Scotland was staying there too, and he woke up and started yelling at me to go to bed so I had to end the call…'_

_America remembers the angry voice on the other end of the line interrupting the call, and how when he called Scotland up the next morning, the elder nation merely dismissed the whole thing as unimportant and said it was probably just a prank._

_'I used my mobile the next time I called,' Sealand is saying. 'And I did it during the day so it wouldn't wake anyone up.'_

_'Why didn't you tell me who you were on the phone?' America asks._

_Sealand fidgets and looks down at the ground, appearing a little uncomfortable. 'I wasn't sure you'd take me seriously. People tend not to do that for some reason.'_

_It's because he's a child, and because he isn't really a proper nation. America knows that, but he doesn't say it. After all, he remembers how he wanted to be his own nation when he was younger. He shouldn't judge another for having the same dream._

_'Well, I'm taking you seriously right now, aren't I?' America says, and Sealand looks up, surprised. 'And trust me, I don't take a lot of things in life very seriously, so you should feel honoured if anything. I'll listen to what you have to say- hero's promise.'_

_Sealand grins. 'Okay. Sounds good.'_

_America smiles. 'Great. So, what exactly can you tell me about England?'_

* * *

_There's a clock. England can hear it ticking._

_Each second that passes sounds like horse's hoof clicking against the floor and it echoes around the room. England keeps his eyes closed and his body pressed against the ground with his arms curled around his waist. Any slight movement and the pain rips through his chest. Even the small breaths he's taking hurt._

_After a while, the clock chimes. Luckily, it's marking the hour, so he's able to figure out what time it is. Five chimes in total. Five o'clock._

_It must be a grandfather clock. It sounds like one. People don't tend to have them in their homes anymore, which is a shame because England has always liked them. Some may call the noise from them at fifteen minute intervals annoying, but England is so used to the pattern from the one inside his house that he never thinks anything of it. It's a rhythmic. It's familiar._

_His mouth twists a little into a tiny smile. Maybe this is his clock. Maybe he's at home right now, and he's just caught a sickness or something._

_Then his thoughts shift to an image of the burning clock tower of Big Ben and the smile dies on his lips._

Not my clock tower, _he thinks._ Not my London. _His_ London.

_A different London. A different world. But if that's the case then how come he can feel everything? He shouldn't be connected to this version of London at all, not if he's somehow stumbled into... an alternate reality._

_It doesn't quite sound as ridiculous to him as he figures it should do. Perhaps this is because he knows that separate dimensions do exist. There's the Otherworld, for a start- the realm where demons lurk, the one that can be opened with the right incantations. He's even tried summoning demons before, though it never really worked out._

_Is this the Otherworld? It might be. England doesn't actually know what the Otherworld really looks like. He's always just pictured it as a blackened land of fire- after all, it is also referred to as Hell, and with good reason. But maybe the Otherworld is really this- a twisted echo of the world he knows._

_Which is what leads him to his next assumption: the Otherworld is perhaps also known as Hell because it really_ is _Hell- some form of the afterlife, designated for the souls of sinners. And if he's here, then..._

 _He drowned. That must be it. He drowned in the river when he fell in. When it was all going black, he wasn't losing consciousness, he was losing his_ life. _And he ended up here._

_He's no saint. None of the nations are. With a bloody history and plenty of lives lost because of him, England doesn't really expect heaven to be the place for him to end up if it actually exists. If the souls of the damned go to the Otherworld when they die, then it makes sense that he was sent here. And trapped in a burning version of his own capital city, feeling all of it- this is definitely his version of Hell._

_He understands it. But that doesn't mean he has to accept it._

_He opens his eyes and catches sight of the alternate version of himself. Other England is sitting cross-legged in the corner, watching him._

_'I knew you weren't asleep,' he says._

_England shifts his body into a sitting position, clenching his chest with his hand. He tries not to let any pain show. 'Is this Hell?' he asks calmly._

_Other England laughs. 'No, silly. You're not dead. Well, I mean, you are dead, but not really.'_

_'Oh, thanks,' England mutters sarcastically. 'That really cleared things up.'_

_Other England is holding something in one hand, and in the other he has a knife. England stiffens as he catches sight of it, then relaxes slightly when he realises that it's only a butter knife. Which seems a little ridiculous. If Other England wants to inflict pain on him then shouldn't he use an instrument that will actually cause damage?_

_But Other England simply wipes the knife gently over the object he has in his other hand. It's a little too dark to make out what it might be, but whatever it is, it's small, and it makes a quiet crackly noise, like paper being creased. After a few seconds, Other England reaches down to a glass bowl beside him and dips the knife into the dark contents. England's eyes are adjusting now, and he deduces that the substance inside the bowl isn't quite a liquid. Maybe some kind of paste. And it looks red._

_Other England brings the knife up again and starts smearing the paste on the object in his other hand once more. He's making something. England can smell it, too. It's sweet. Sickly sweet. It might be food. At that thought, he becomes conscious of how long he has probably gone without food. And water. He hasn't really been aware of it up until now because the pain in his chest has been consuming his mind._

_'Where am I?'_

_Other England grins. 'London.'_

_'Yeah, no shit.' England is not going to put up with any sarcasm. Sarcasm is_ his _thing. Never mind that this other person is technically him. Only one of them is allowed to be sarcastic with the other, and he's sure as hell not letting it be Other England._

_'Don't worry. The fire won't get us in here. It will have died down now, anyway. It's controllable.'_

'Little _fires are controllable. Not ones like that.'_

_Other England giggles. 'Just a little fire, all tame and sweet.'_

_'That wasn't little at all. Fires aren't tame and they're certainly not sweet,' England snaps. But his doppelgänger isn't listening. He's just quietly humming a song and working on his project with a little smile on his face. This gives England a chance to look around the room._

_It's a different one from before. This one is bare, too, other than a little barred window at the top. It's tiny and the light outside it is dull and not very bright at all. It's probably morning and not evening. Five in the morning, sixth of November. England must have lost consciousness on the roof last night. Maybe from pain, or from shock. Maybe even from the coldness that was running through his body, despite the fire. The coldness from the freezing water he fell in. He's still cold now, but at least his clothes are dry. He's not lying on any table this time, just a concrete floor._

_Other England is still humming. England recognises the tune now. It's the nursery rhyme, London's Burning._

_Other England unfolds his legs and gets to his feet, scooping the bowl off the floor. He steps over to the door._

_'Where are you going?' England calls out. Is he going to be left alone here?_

_Other England turns his head and fixes his electric blue eyes on England. The twisted smile stretches across his face. 'I thought you might want some alone time?' he says in a false sympathetic voice, the tone sounding as if addressing a child. 'You're so upset and moody right now. Maybe you should sleep on it.' He grins and steps through the door. 'Sweet dreams.'_

_England pushes himself to his feet and throws himself at the iron door, but it's already been bolted shut from the other side. He gasps in pain as his chest flares up in agony and he collapses against the door, sliding down it until he's reached the floor._

_After a few seconds of his vision blurring alarmingly, everything finally comes back into focus. He gaze rests on the spot where Other England was sitting. It's not empty. The small object that was in his doppelgänger's hand has been left there on the floor. Encased in a little papery cup, covered in red icing._

_A cupcake._

* * *

There's a low buzzing sound from England's phone. It's on silent but he can still hear it, out in the hallway where he hung his coat. Now that he's off the streets and inside America's house, it's much easier to hear the phone. He wishes it wasn't.

'Wow, you have four missed calls from Scotland,' Sealand says, entering the living room where England is sitting. He's clearly been rummaging around in England's coat pocket because the phone is in his hand.

'Who said you could look at that?' England snaps, holding his hand out. Sealand sticks his tongue out but hands the phone over.

'Scotland once did that to me too,' he says. 'Back in 2013. I went off trick or treating with America at Halloween and I forgot to tell him I was going.'

'I remember that,' America laughs. 'It was an awesome night. Scotland was pretty pissed about it though-'

England coughs impatiently. 'As thrilling as I'm sure that tale is, it's not quite the story I'm hoping to be told.'

He sits on the edge of his chair, unwilling to get too comfy in case he has to leave at any second. Of course, the micronation is hardly a threat (even his paranoid mind knows that) but he's still cautious about America, even though he knows he shouldn't be. America and Sealand have both taken spots on the sofa opposite him.

Sealand grins. 'Yeah, you want to hear about how I'm totally smarter than Scotland and the others 'cause I knew you were still alive.'

'How did you know?'

'I could hear you.'

'You could- what?' England is thoroughly confused.

Sealand leans back against the cushions on the sofa, a confident smile on his face. 'I could hear your voice. Sometimes I could hear others too, but it was mostly yours.'

'My... my voice?'

Sealand nods. 'You called out a lot at first. You kind of stopped doing it after a while but I'd still hear bits and pieces now and then. I guess you were screaming out in your thoughts or something. You were always asking if anyone could hear you, so I think you might have been trying to send a message. You were asking for help.'

England can't think of anything to say. All of this should sound ridiculous. It _should_. But it doesn't.

'We think you were sending the messages telepathically with your magic,' America puts in. 'Which I gotta say sounds pretty awesome.'

'But... how...?'

Sealand rolls his eyes. 'No idea. You were the one doing it, jerk. I was just the one getting the messages.'

'No, I mean how come you could hear me?' England asks. 'It doesn't make any sense. If I had called out telepathically, the chances of someone hearing it would have been very slim.'

'Well, yeah. I mean you did sound all muffled and stuff,' Sealand says casually.

'The only people who should be able to hear it would have to...' He trails off, eyes widening in shock. No. That's impossible.

There's a mischievous glint in Sealand's eyes. He turns to grin at America. 'Now he's getting it.'

'You... you have...'

'What's so surprising?' Sealand looks quite smug. 'After all, it's just like you were saying. The only people who could possibly hear it would have to possess-'

'Magic?' England whispers. 'You have magic?'

'Is that so hard to believe? It _does_ run in the family, after all.'

England is stunned. Sealand isn't wrong. Scotland, Ireland, Wales and England all have magic, so it does make sense that the youngest brother has it too. That part is quite logical, really. England begins to wonder how he never realised this. Then another thought occurs to him.

'It must be quite strong,' he says. 'Your magic. Stronger the Wales and Ireland's, definitely. Stronger than Scotland's too, it seems. After all, none of them could hear me calling.'

Sealand puffs out his chest. 'Well, duh. I am going to become the strongest country in the world, after all!'

America chuckles. 'I like your ambition and everything, buddy, but don't forget that you won't be surpassing me any time soon. I _am_ the hero, remember?'

Sealand rises up to the challenge immediately. 'Oh yeah? We'll see about that!'

The edges of England's mouth twitch slightly and he almost smiles. He can certainly see why the two of them get along so well.

He can recall snippets of his cries for help now that it's on his mind. He's already aware that he was very, very afraid, so it makes sense that he would have called out, hoping someone would hear him.

And Sealand clearly did.

But there was no rescue. No one came.

'No one else believed you, then?' he says.

'No one except America,' Sealand says. 'I tried telling Scotland and Ireland and Wales but they said I was just playing pretend because I'm a kid. They told me it was just make believe. They said it was just a game.'

'They're idiots,' England says.

'Would you have listened to me, though?' Sealand is frowning. It looks quite serious on such a young face. 'If someone else had gone missing, and I tried telling everyone they weren't dead. Would you have believed me?'

England shifts uncomfortably. No. Probably not. The chances are he would have said similar things to what the elder brothers said. He and Sealand aren't exactly known for seeing eye to eye. He, like everyone else, probably wouldn't have taken the micronation seriously. The thought of Sealand having magic never even occurred to him.

America breaks the rather awkward silence quite abruptly. 'I'm making coffee. Anyone want anything to drink?'

'Juice?' Sealand asks hopefully, a childish excitement quickly appearing on his face as if that brief moment of seriousness never existed. Yet another thing America and Sealand seem to have in common.

'Sure thing, man. England?'

'I'm fine, thank you.' England doubts America has tea in his house.

Once America is out the room, England asks, 'How come you're at America's house?'

'I messaged America earlier on to say we'd arrived in the city and then I asked Wales to drop me off. I think we're staying in the same hotel as you and Scotland.'

'And why exactly did the two of you come?' England already knows the answer, but he wants to hear Sealand's interpretation of it.

'Wales was all freaking out and stuff 'cause Scotland rang a few days ago to say you made some weird creature appear and it attacked you guys.'

' _I_ didn't make it appear,' England says hotly. 'Someone else summoned it.'

'The people in the bad world?'

England stiffens. '… What do you know about that?'

Sealand blinks. 'Well, that's where you were, wasn't it? No one could find you here 'cause you were in another world. It makes sense.'

England can hardly breathe. If someone else has come to this conclusion then maybe it's not all in his head. Maybe those visions he saw of the other England with the electric blue eyes and the burning London are... real.

'I figured it out all by myself,' Sealand says proudly. 'And then I told America. But when I said I thought you might have been in a different world, he started going on about how you might have been abducted by aliens-'

'Yeah, that sounds like him.'

'- and he went and asked that alien friend of his, Tony, whether you had been. The alien's funny. And rude. He swears even more than Denmark when he's drunk,' Sealand giggles.

England can hear America snort with laughter in the kitchen.

Sealand's voice becomes a little quieter and the smile falls from his face. 'Like I said, it wasn't just you. I could sometimes hear the people in the bad place too.'

'Did you see anything at all?' England asks. 'Like in dreams or visions?'

'I see weird things if that's what you mean,' Sealand replies, not quite understanding what England meant. 'But I think that's just 'cause of my magic. Like I see creatures that no one else can see.'

'Best to pretend they're not there when around others,' England advises. 'Or else people will think you're crazy.'

Sealand pouts. 'I'm not stupid, jerk. But it doesn't matter anyway, because everyone will just assume I'm playing make believe or something, like little kids do.'

'Do Scotland, Ireland and Wales know you have magic?'

Sealand's eyes drift downwards and he glares at the carpet. 'I told them but they didn't believe me. They said that no one born as recently as I have could have it, because there isn't enough magic left in the world these days. And they said it wasn't possible because according to them, I'm not a proper nation.'

England feels like punching the three eldest brothers. He feels like punching himself too, because the chances are he would have given Sealand the same crap if he'd been around.

'How long have you known?' he asks softly.

'Only after you went missing,' Sealand says. 'I could hear your voice every so often. It got louder and it happened more often after a few months. Then I started seeing the fae and everything. I figured since they apparently knew you quite well, I could ask them where you were. But they didn't know either.'

And now England is thinking back to two nights ago in the park when he was asking the fae about where he might have been. _The other one asked the same questions,_ the fae had told him. _Your kin. His magic was not as great as yours, but it was enough to summon us. We could not help him._

England had assumed at the time that they were referring to Scotland. But they didn't mean him. They were talking about Sealand.

'So you were in a different world, Iggy? It's true?' America asks as he walks back into the room with the drinks.

'I told you so,' Sealand mutters.

'Yeah, and I believed you, man. But Tony was saying that Iggy hadn't been abducted and he can't have been on another planet or anything 'cause there would be no oxygen-'

'I wasn't exactly on another planet, America,' England says. 'I can't remember very well, but if these visions I keep having are real, then I was in another dimension.'

America stares at him for a second, then a grin splits across his face. 'That's awesome! So, did you like go through a portal or something?'

Sealand grins too. 'It was probably the river, wasn't it? Wales told me you fell in. How did you manage that?'

England glares at both of them, his face feeling a little hot. 'This certainly isn't an amusing matter, and whether or not I accidentally fell in is completely irrelevant… But yes, it was probably the river. The entity managed to get into our world via the mirror and I did tell the G8 earlier on that anything that holds a reflection, like water, could be used as a gateway to another dimension, with the right incantations.'

'So the river was the portal?' America says.

'Yes.'

'And when you fell in, you went through into another world?'

'Yes.'

'What was it like?' America says eagerly. 'Were there weird monsters and stuff?'

'Were the colours all wrong?' Sealand adds, just as excited. 'Like, was the sky purple and the grass yellow or something?'

 _Children,_ England thinks, resisting the urge to smack his own forehead. _I am dealing with children. Well, one of them_ is _a child._

'I don't, ah, remember much about it, remember?' he mutters, keeping his voice even.

Exactly how much should he say? Would they believe him if he told them that he met a clone of himself? All things considered, it _sounds_ completely ridiculous, but these two are probably the most likely to believe him, given their acceptance of the existence of an alternate dimension.

He's certainly not too keen on mentioning how everything was on fire. America and Sealand look so happy at the thought of what the other world might be like and they probably won't like their little fantasy being crushed.

_Not everything was on fire, though. Just London. The other England told me that they celebrate the fifth of November in that world by burning the city._

'Why didn't you just come back, though?' America asks, looking puzzled. 'I mean, why spend five years there when you could have just jumped back in the river again and come back to this world? Was the other world so great that you didn't want to leave?'

England may just be imagining it, but America sounds a little hurt as he asks.

'You could have at least come back and told everyone you weren't dead,' the bigger nation continues, not quite looking England in the eye.

'The other world was far from great,' England says quietly. He pictures his burning capital and clenches his fists. 'I can remember that much. If I could have found a way back sooner, I would have done it in a heartbeat. Of that, I'm sure.'

'That's why you were calling for help, right?' Sealand pipes up. ''Cause you didn't know how to get back, and you didn't like being there.'

'It was bad,' England says. 'That place was bad.'

America shifts slightly on the couch and England tenses up immediately. He has to stop being so obvious, especially in front of America himself.

'I should go,' he says finally. 'I need to discuss this with-'

'Not Scotland!' Sealand groans. 'Wales told me that they all think you're mentally unstable right now. And I heard Wales saying to Ireland that you probably have PT… S… something, whatever that means. They won't listen to me because they think I'm a kid and they won't listen to you because they think you're crazy.'

'I'm going to talk to the fae, not Scotland,' England replies, trying not to wince at the thought of his older brothers diagnosing him with PTSD. Chances are they're probably not wrong. 'I'm not telling Scotland anything,' he adds, only realising a little too late how bitter he sounds.

'You found out about him calling off the search,' America says, abnormally quiet. It's a statement, not a question.

England frowns. 'How do you know I found out?'

'You said a lot of stuff while you were drunk, dude.'

England sighs. He never should have touched any alcohol last night. 'Canada mentioned how you, um… argued quite strongly against that.'

America holds his head high, looking quite proud. 'I'm the hero, and heroes don't just give up on people.'

It's worth saying this, if it can make any amends. England doesn't want America to think he's uncomfortable in America's presence. Letting him know that England is grateful is about all that can be done right now, at least until this is fixed.

But Sealand definitely deserves gratitude too, after all he's done. It's quite miraculous that the micronation tried to help England, considering their rocky relationship.

'Thanks,' England mumbles, his voice barely audible.

America and Sealand stare at him. 'What?' America asks.

England feels his face getting hot again. He's terrible at this kind of thing. 'Thank you for… everything. That you did. Both of you.'

There are a few seconds of silence then massive smirks spread across America and Sealand's faces.

'Did you hear that, America?' Sealand says smugly.

'Sure did,' America replies, looking like his birthday has come early. 'Sounds like Iggy learnt how to say the words 'thank you'.'

'Oh, shut it,' England mutters, feeling his mouth twitch slightly into a tiny smile. 'Like I said, I have to go.'

'Sure thing, dude,' America says cheerfully. 'You gonna be in the meeting tomorrow?'

'Who knows? I've become quite unpredictable,' England says honestly. 'Even I can't anticipate my actions. I'll see you soon. Probably.' He stands up and heads out the room towards the front door.

'Later, man!' America calls.

England's about halfway down the street when he hears running footsteps coming up behind him. He turns to see Sealand racing towards him, wearing the little blue coat that England spotted hanging up earlier.

'Aren't you staying round at America's house a little longer?' he asks. 'I thought Wales was picking you up later?'

'I wanna talk to the fae too!' Sealand replies. 'I can prove to you that I can see them and everything!'

'I already believe you,' England says, but Sealand isn't listening.

'I bet you they like me more than they like you!'

England scoffs. 'Please. I've known the fae since I was a child myself. We go very far back.'

The two end up catching a cab to the park. England is a little apprehensive because it's the middle of the day and there will be people around, unlike when he kept here the other night. Sealand on the other hand is excitable, babbling on about how it's a shame he doesn't have trees on his naval port and so there aren't any forest spirits in his 'country'.

They've only just gotten out the cab when a phone rings. Sealand pulls a flashy looking mobile out his coat pocket and mumbles, 'Denmark gave it to me' when England raises his eyebrows. 'Hello? Oh, hi Wales.'

England can just make out Wales's voice on the other end. _'Sea, something has, um- something has happened. An accident. I'm coming to c-collect you a little early.'_

'An accident?' England wonders aloud, and he hears Wales gasp.

_'Was that England? Is he there w-with you? Can you put him on the phone?'_

Looking perplexed, Sealand hands the phone to England. 'Wales?' England says.

_'G-good, you're okay. Uh, thing's aren't so g-good over here.'_

'Why? What's happened? Where are you?'

Wales's voice is stuttering quite badly. He sounds as if he's on the verge of a panic attack. _'At the G-G-G8.'_

'What happened? Is everyone alright?'

Wales lets out a little sob. _'England, it's… it's Scotland.'_

* * *

_It's been three days._

_The sky brightens and darkens progressively over the course of the many hours England is trapped in the room. This is the only way he can tell how much time has passed._

_An extended lifespan also means that nations can go prolonged periods without basic requirements, unlike humans. So far England has chosen not to sleep, and no food or water has been given to him. There's a little door off to the side and it leads into a bathroom, but there's no escape through there. No water comes out the taps when they're turned on and there is no lightbulb anywhere._

_The crimson painted cupcake is left untouched on the floor. England refuses to go near it._

_He's slowly learning to bear with the pain. By the second day he can stand up for a minute or so without collapsing, but walking is unthinkable. He opts to crawl around instead, or at the very least use the walls for support. This is highly undignified and he's glad none of the other nations can see this. France would have a field day._

_He doesn't mean to, but on the third night he accidentally dozes off. There's nothing comfortable to sleep on and even in sleep his shivering doesn't cease. When he wakes up, he's disgusted with himself. He's lasted longer without sleep in the past. He managed two whole weeks awake during the Battle of the Somme. This is just pathetic._

_There's a new cupcake waiting for him. The icing this time is yellow with little orange dots and golden sprinkles. England forces himself to his feet and shuffles painfully over to the delicacy. With as much energy as he can muster, he gives it a swift kick and it splatters against the wall opposite him. He's starving but he refuses to give in to Other England so quickly- he refuses to give in at all._

My stubbornness may well be the death of me, _England thinks with a weak smile. Besides, he detests the sickly sweet smell radiating off the cake. It can't simply just be ordinary flavouring. There's something foreign about that cupcake. Something wrong, something dangerous._

_On the fourth night, the temperature drops rapidly. England finds himself unable to stop shivering. He huddles in a corner of his prison, trying to ignore his burning stomach and his dry throat. If he's already dead and he's in hell, he can't die again, can he?_

You are dead, but not really.

_What does that mean? Half-dead? If he isn't dead then why is he here? What the hell is happening…?_

_A howl breaks the silence of the night and England jumps violently, eyes wide in shock. The noise is joined by a series of similar noises, all joining together as one song._

_That's impossible. The last wolves in Britain died out centuries ago. And why on earth would there be any in a burnt down ghost of a city? But of course, this isn't the Britain or the London he knows. Things are very different here._

_England heaves himself to his feet and stumbles over to the barred window. Standing on tiptoes, he peers out into the dark, dusty gloom. And right there, just a few feet away, an amber pair of eyes stare right back._

_The creature emits a low, rumbling growl and England stumbles back, actually glad that he's protected by the walls and by the bars on the window._

_He makes his way back to the corner and curls up against the wall once more. He's not dead. He can't be. This can't be death. He feels_ alive _._

_He needs to find a way home, and he can't do this alone._

_In the end, he doesn't cringe or swallow his pride. He doesn't even think about how the other nations are all going to laugh at the pathetic state he's in. None of this occurs to him. The only thing on his mind is a frightened plea, something he's been supressing so far. He closes his eyes and concentrates on any magical power he might be able to muster. He just hopes that one of his brothers will hear him._

'Please… please, it's me. It's England. I'm lost. I'm hurt. If someone can hear me… please… help…'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon is that, aside from being one of the Kirkland brothers, Sealand is technically an English naval port, and so his magic kind of originates from England. There are different types of magic among those who can use it. Some may specialise in the healing arts and others may excel at conjuring and whatnot. I think Sealand's magic is quite powerful because England's magic is especially powerful, at least compared to their three elder brothers. It also means that Sealand's particular abilities would be by default quite similar to England's abilities.
> 
> Yeah, and as you can see, something bad has happened to Scotland. I was going to write exactly what happened into this chapter but I think I should probably call it a day here.
> 
> Ahh... 2P England and his cupcakes XD
> 
> Anywho, I have a Tumblr blog for Hetalia specifically instead of just my multifandom one. Both links on my FanFicion.net profile. (The Hetalia one is like literally 80% USUK XD)
> 
> So, I'll see you guys next time. Please check out the poll if you can, and remember to review!
> 
> Bye!


	12. Courage Dies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy, have I cooked up a troublesome chapter here. It took ages for me to think of the right words to start it off with, and it took me weeks to try, but once I was off, I really got into it. Just had to persevere, I guess. '^^
> 
> Um. Yeah. Angst. Angsty, angsty angst. Nothing new there. XD
> 
> A big panic attack as well from one of the characters (you can probably guess which one). Loads of paranoia too, though it's not just England this time. Fingers are being pointed in this chapter.
> 
> Allons-y! (A reviewer was asking about the 'allons-y' thing I do at the beginning of each chapter. No, I'm not French. It's a Doctor Who inside joke. A couple of years ago I decided to do it in every new chapter of all of my stories. As you may be able to tell by now, I'm a massive Whovian. '^^)

_England has been gone for about an hour and a half and Scotland has tried ringing him four times. Each one has gone to voicemail._

_He curses Russia for the millionth time. France, Germany and Japan too. They may not have been aware that England was listening in on them, but who the hell said it was okay for them to discuss all of this privately?_

Hypocrite, _says a nasty voice in Scotland's head, and he sighs._

_Wales has texted him again, telling him that Sealand has been dropped off at America's house, which explains why the damn yank was happy to ditch the meeting. Scotland replies with a message rather casually saying that England has left the meeting too. He tries not to imply that anything is wrong, but Wales panics anyway._

**Where did he go? Is he ok?**

**He wonders off quite a lot these days,** _Scotland replies._ **He'll probably show up again at 3am or something.**

_But will he, though? If what America says is true, then there's a possibility that England has discovered that Scotland's the one who told everyone he was dead. But where could he have heard it? Maybe it was something France, Russia, Germany or Japan might have said whilst England was spying on them…_

_Maybe one of the other G8 members told him. America claimed in their argument earlier on that he hadn't said anything, but in all honestly, America_ would _be the one to say something, wouldn't he? How he would_ love _that. The self-proclaimed hero, being completely honest with England and explaining how Scotland's the 'bad guy' who gave up on his own little brother, but the 'hero' never did give up hope. America would probably jump at the opportunity…_

_Scotland scowls and checks his phone again. Nothing, not even another worried text from Wales. Then again, it's probably only been around thirty seconds since he last looked at it._

_He would have come out with the truth, eventually. Scotland knows there was no way he could hide it forever. He just wishes he could have phrased it properly instead of someone else blurting it out. Then again, it would be a miracle in itself getting England to listen to reason, or even listen at all for that matter. The younger has never been particularly talkative with his family and he is even less so now that he has returned._

_Scotland goes over the words in his head, slowly._ I'm sorry. _Is it good to start with an apology? England will scoff at that. England always scoffs at apologies. And sympathy. And just general concern, really._

You weren't dead, obviously. But, for whatever reason, your life force was cut off regardless. For two years Wales and I knew, and we said nothing. By the third year, we were having trouble hiding what we knew. After three years altogether, we couldn't pretend any longer.

_Scotland's really making an arse of himself, he knows. He's glad that he is at least alone right now. Germany excused him so that he could take a break and try and get in contact with England. He hasn't actually left the building though- he's on the third floor, in the original meeting room the entity attacked them in at the beginning of the week. White sheets cover the big hole that was blasted in the wall and there are a couple of sheets of glass leaning up against a wall, ready to be used as the new windows. The builders aren't around right now so Scotland figures he probably won't be disturbed here. After all, none of the other countries are keen on coming back to the place where they were almost killed by a supernatural monster._

_Scotland lights a cigarette. It's his third one since he came with his little brother to the States. The first was at America's house, after the first meeting and the encounter with the entity. The second was in the hotel room on the morning of the third meeting, right before England returned from his night wandering. Scotland still doesn't know where his brother disappeared to. Perhaps that's where England is right now._

_'Where are yeh…?' he mutters tiredly, leaning up against one of the undamaged walls._

_Eventually, a strange, echoing, ringing noise reaches his ears. It's gentle like wind chimes in a slight breeze but it sounds unnatural, making an eerie_ vwooorp _noise. Is it just the wind against the white sheets? Something about it is familiar…_

_Scotland frowns and strides across the room to the hole in the wall. There don't appear to be any major gaps in the sheet and it seems to be held fairly secure against the wall. It's not flapping around or anything and definitely is not the cause of the noise._

_Scotland's skin is tingling. More than that. As he leans down to inspect the bottom of the sheet to insure that it is held down here too, he acknowledges that his very awareness is currently heightened. As he straightens up again, he knows it has something to do with his Sight._

_His magic may not be nearly as strong as England's, but he can tell that he is in the presence of some sort of supernatural occurrence._

_He turns around quickly, but he can't see anything. There isn't an entity hovering there, waiting to attack him. There aren't any magical creatures in sight. There's nothing here out of the order in front of him, just a stack of bricks for the new wall, the glass sheets and some empty cement mixers-_

Anything that casts a reflection.

_Scotland remembers England's hypothesis. The younger told the G8 that the mirror isn't the only thing that magical creatures like the entity can use. Anything that casts a reflection, like water or-_

Glass.

_Scotland stares at the glass sheets. Although they are transparent, he can just make out a faded reflection of himself staring back. As he watches, the reflection and all sight of the other side of the glass are replaced by a black abyss, spreading across the glass like smoke._

_Another entity? Scotland's eyes dart to the opening to the room where the door once stood. He can't get to it without passing fairly close to the glass sheets. He's on the wrong side of the room, standing close to the hole in the outer wall, covered by the white sheets. Not enough magical power and no handy knife on him. He's nowhere near as prepared as England was the last time they were all attacked._

_He turns around again to see if there's anything behind him he can use. But no, all that's here is the great hole on the side of the building and the sheet covering it. On the one hand, it is an exit. An exit that leads straight to a drop of what must be at least seventy feet with a concrete pavement below. No thanks._

_When he turns around again, he can make out a silhouette on the sheet of glass. It's barely distinguishable but there is a lighter shape on the black background of a person standing there. A humanoid figure, not like the entity. And instead of the bright ruby eyes of the entity, these ones are a dark crimson._

_'What… who the hell are yeh?' Scotland manages to get out. He remembers England telling about the two pairs of eyes haunting him. One pair bright blue, the other pair red. Is this one of the people who kidnapped England?_

_A faint chuckle is emitted from the glass. The tone sounds familiar. As if Scotland has heard this particular sound before._

_'What did yeh do to my brother?' Scotland demands._

_The laughter fades away and the silhouette straightens up a little. Its features aren't clear yet, only the red eyes._

Smash the glass, _Scotland thinks quickly._ I need to smash the glass. It might still get through in the fragments, but it's still worth a shot.

_Despite every instinct in his body telling him to back away from this mysterious figure, Scotland approaches the glass cautiously. He'll have to kick it or pick up one of the bricks and throw it, maybe._

_But as soon as he reaches the glass, the figure has faded, as has the black canvas behind it. The glass is once again ordinary and transparent. Scotland breathes a sigh of relief. But there's no way it's completely over. That thing could quickly come back and attack for real this time. Scotland takes his eyes of the glass and quickly scans the room for the best object to smash the window with. He settles on the pile of bricks and is about to head over to it when something crashes into him and he goes stumbling backwards in surprise. Looking down in surprise, he spots a long, thick, spiky object retracting from his chest and blood squirting from the spots where the spikes cut into his skin._

_'You hurt England,' says an all too familiar voice, deadly and leering._

_Before Scotland has the chance to look up he has been hit by the object, harder this time. He is not only knocked off his feet but is sent tumbling backwards by the sheer force of the blow._

_His body collides with the white sheets behind him and with a terrible ripping noise, they tear away from the walls under the force of his weight landing on them at this speed. And all of a sudden, there is nothing beneath Scotland. He tumbles through the open air, rushing down to the concrete below._

* * *

The G8 members, with the exception of America and- of course- Scotland, are waiting at the hospital when England and Sealand arrive. Wales is there too, and as his younger brothers enter the accident and emergency department, he rushes to greet them, pulling them both into a big hug. Sealand squirms around and complains, and England closes his eyes and supresses every instinct in his body telling him to push Wales off him.

Wales finally lets go when he notices how rigid England has become. 'Sorry,' he mutters as the other nations standing nearby watch in confusion. 'I forgot.'

How Wales managed to forget England practically judo-flipping him the last time he tried hugging the younger, England will never know, but he supposes there is a far more pressing and immediate concern on Wales's mind right now.

'How bad?' he asks.

Wales winces. 'Sea, how about you go and sit over there with Italy and-'

'No, I want to hear what you're going to say,' Sealand says stubbornly, folding his arms. 'I'm not a little kid. I'm over half a century.'

Which is still pretty young by their standards, but England isn't about to point that out.

'You mentioned a fall,' he presses. 'Where did he fall? How far…?'

Wales's bottom lip is trembling. 'About seventy-five feet…'

'But… that's not too bad,' England murmurs. 'I mean, _humans_ could survive that in certain circumstances. And he's a nation, so he has a much better chance. What did he land on?'

'Concrete,' Wales says, looking down at the ground. 'He fell from the hole in the wall that the creature made, back where the meeting was originally meant to take place…'

'The room where the entity attacked? What was he doing in there?'

'He… uh… took a break from the meeting,' Germany answers. 'He wanted to find somewhere quiet to try phoning you. I suppose he thought he'd be undisturbed in there.'

'But how did he just… fall?' England demands. 'I mean, why the bloody hell would he stand so close to the edge? How could he just…?'

'We don't know, England-san,' Japan says. 'We haven't been allowed to see Scotland-san yet.'

'His wounds aren't too severe,' Wales says. 'I mean, they're bad, but they could be worse. They said he's stable- a few broken ribs and some fractured bones here and there. It's his head their worried about. It would have smacked against the concrete.'

The nations are silent for a few sombre moments and then Sealand pipes up. 'Didn't anyone call America?'

Wales looks puzzled. 'You were both with him. I thought he'd hear it from you.'

'We weren't at America's house when you phoned,' England says. 'He's probably not aware of what's happened.'

'Excuse me? Which one of you is Dylan Kirkland?' a nurse asks, entering the waiting room and glancing around at the gathered countries.

'That's me,' Wales replies.

The nurse smiles. 'Alistair is still stable and has regained consciousness. He has a mild concussion but the signs look good. We haven't found any traces of internal bleeding and he is perfectly responsive. Honestly, your brother is extremely lucky, given the circumstances.'

This is probably down to Scotland being a nation and not a human, as countries can endure wounds significantly better than humans can. There are a few sighs of relief from around the room.

'Can we see him?' Wales asks.

The nurse nods. 'He's been asking to speak with you. We're permitted to admit immediate family once we're certain he is stable, which we are. Are there any other family members…?' The nurse's eyes rest on England and Sealand, probably taking note of their similar appearances to Wales and Scotland.

Wales looks quite content. 'Come on,' he says to his two younger brothers.

The three leave the other nations in the waiting room and follow the nurse out of the room. They're lead down a corridor to a private ward close to the theatre room. Scotland is the only patient in the room, on a bed at the far end, a scowl etched across his face as if he's rather fed up with the whole situation. England resists the urge to smirk, then remembers that his brother almost died and they're not exactly on fantastic terms right now as it is. Honestly, this is probably going to be incredibly awkward. These recent events are enough to make England feel guilty about resenting his brother.

Sealand bounds up to Scotland's bed and immediately starts barking out inquisitive questions ('Are you okay now? What did you break? Can I see the x-rays? Are you gonna need a wheelchair?'), while Wales follows along and England trails behind him. Scotland's eyes widen when he catches sight of England.

'Wasn't expecting yeh to show up,' he says, sounding almost relieved. 'I thought yeh'd disappeared.'

'Wasn't expecting you to fall out of a hole in a wall,' England replies neutrally. 'Today's full of surprises.'

Wales sends them both anxious looks, probably silently begging them to keep the peace. Sealand remains completely oblivious, having discovered the little remote that controls the position and angle of the bed. Wales quickly grabs it off him before he has time to press any of the buttons.

'Are you going to be alright?' Wales asks. 'What did you break?'

Scotland looks thoroughly irritated as he glances down at his leg, which is currently being held in a cast. 'One arm, one leg and about three ribs. Buggered up my other shoulder pretty badly too. Bloody nuisance.' He glances around at any humans that might be nearby and lowers his voice. 'And we all know that this will all be healed pretty quickly, so yeh best get me outta here before the humans start askin' questions.'

Wales is glaring at Scotland, visibly angered. Scotland and England both frown in confusion. 'Something wrong, Wales?' Scotland asks.

'You're okay!' Wales exclaims, narrowing his eyes.

'Erm… yeah. I guess,' Scotland says. 'I mean, broken bones and everything, but if yeh're not counting them, then-'

'I thought you might die!'

'… Sorry?' Scotland says, looking bewildered. He glances questioningly at England, but the blonde just shrugs his shoulders, also perplexed by Wales's outburst.

Sealand giggles. 'Of course he's not gonna die! Silly Wales.'

Wales starts laughing too, and Scotland tries joining in but it's clear that it's causing him pain when he starts chuckling.

'How did you fall?' England interjects, remaining stoic.

'Killjoy,' Sealand says with a pout.

Finally, the rather chilled-out look on Scotland face begins to disappear. He looks up at England seriously for a second then turns to look at Wales. 'Could yeh and Sealand give us a moment alone? I need to talk to him about-'

'No,' England says. 'You're going to tell us why you fell.' Now is not the time to be talking about anything else.

Scotland rolls his eyes. 'That's what I'm gonna do, dummy.'

'I want to hear it as well,' Wales remarks. 'I have the right to know-'

'Wales,' Scotland says seriously. 'This is important. Just give us a few minutes.'

'I should know!' Sealand says stubbornly. 'You can't just keep things from me! I deserve to know!' he glances at England expectantly and the other blonde feels his stomach twist uncomfortably. Over the last few minutes, Sealand has once again been acting just like any other child, and it's easy to forget how he supposedly has quite powerful magic and was the only one who could hear England calling. No one ever takes the micronation seriously, not until America decided to listen, and then England heard what they both had to say this very afternoon. So now Sealand is clearly relying on England to stick up for him. It's only fair.

'They both have the right to hear what you have to say,' England says. 'Wales has been worried sick about you and Sealand shouldn't be kept in the dark.'

'Yeah!' Sealand says. 'Jerk England is right, for once!' England almost rolls his eyes.

'Look,' Scotland says firmly through gritted teeth. 'It's a personal matter I'd rather discuss with England. Alone. I'll talk to yeh both afterwards.'

After a few seconds, Wales sighs. 'Come on, Sea. We'll go and tell the others that Scotland's okay.'

'But…' Sealand glances uncertainly at England, who is at a loss as to what to do now. Scotland's decision appears to be quite final. If the other two don't leave, England doubts Scotland's going to explain what happened, so the only way he's going to hear anything is if Wales and Sealand leave.

Once the other two are out the room, Scotland motions with his head for England to come closer. They're alone, as far as England can tell. The family have been given space and there are no other patients in the ward so there aren't any doctors or nurses hurrying in and out.

'England,' Scotland says slowly. 'Yeh have to promise yeh'll hear me out.'

England grits his teeth. 'I'm sure you falling seventy-five feet should be a little higher on your list of priorities to discuss than whatever I may have overheard you and several other nations saying about me. That's hardly relevant right now. What's relevant is you could have _died._ '

'Worried?' Scotland asks with a weak grin. England glares right back, and Scotland sighs. 'I'm not going to talk to yeh about what yeh heard. Not yet, if yeh don't want to. I really am going to talk about the fall.'

'Good. Then Wales and Sealand should-'

'England. Yeh won't want them to hear this, believe me. Yeh won't even want to hear it yerself, which is why I want yeh to promise yeh'll hear me out.'

Curiosity is prickling inside England now. 'Why?'

'Yeh're smart, little brother,' Scotland says. 'I'm sure yeh've already sussed that it wasn't an accident.'

'Of course it wasn't accident,' England dismisses. 'That meeting room was big. Who the hell stands right at the edge as opposed to the rest of the room and ends up just 'accidentally' falling off? Either… either something made you fall or you…'

'I didn't jump, England. I'm not suicidal.'

'Okay…' England bites his lip. 'So… something pushed you. Another entity?'

'I thought so at first,' Scotland admits. 'There were these glass sheets up there. There was something in the reflection. With red eyes.'

'You saw the demon?' England says almost hungrily.

'It sure as hell looked demonic,' Scotland agrees. 'That's one of the ones yeh were talking 'bout, right? That one and the one with blue eyes.'

'Yeah…' The crimson-eyed demon is still a mystery to England, but he knows that the electric blue eyes belong to his doppelgänger.

'But the thing in the mirror disappeared before I fell. Something else pushed me. Rather, it hit me. It whacked me in the chest with this long spiky instrument and cut up my skin a little. And it wasn't just something. _Someone_ ,' Scotland says carefully.

'Are you sure it wasn't the demon?' England says, tilting his head in confusion. 'It was right there in the reflection. I know you said it vanished but maybe it came back. Are you sure it didn't just come through and…?'

'I would have thought so, yeah,' Scotland says quietly. 'But I recognised their voice. The person who made me fall. It's not some mystery culprit, it's someone we _know._ And I think that they might be in contact with the people who took you. They might be working with them from _our_ side of the reflections.'

 _… France?_ England freezes, hardly daring to breathe. _Please no._ He's already concluded that France must be working with the demon, so… could it be him? _Please, please no._ A part of England still wants to desperately believe that he's wrong, that France isn't an enemy, but God… what if France pushed Scotland…? He was in the meeting building at the time. He could have taken a break, gone upstairs, found Scotland… _No, no, no, no, no, please…_

'This is why yeh have to hear me out, England,' Scotland is saying, and he genuinely looks sorry for what he's about to tell his younger brother. 'Yeh're not gonna like this at all. Yeh'll hate it. I'm sorry, alright, but I heard him speaking and I knew his voice.'

England stays silent, too terrified to say anything.

'He said one thing to me: _Yeh hurt England._ I don't understand how the hell that works out. If he _is_ working with the people who took yeh, then I woulda thought he wouldn't give a damn about yeh. And yet at the same time, it makes perfect sense. He was always the one fighting the rest of us, saying we were lettin' yeh down…'

 _Wait… hang on…_ Realisation is dawning on England. _Not France._ No. It can't be. _No…_

_Don't say it. Please don't say it. It can't be. Please don't let it be…_

'It was America,' Scotland says.

_NO._

'I'm so sorry, England.'

_NO. PLEASE._

'He was always telling us yeh were still alive. Like he knew something we didn't. Well, maybe… maybe he did. Maybe he was in contact with the bastards who took yeh.'

_PLEASE, PLEASE, NO._

'I don't know why he was upset 'bout _me_ hurting yeh though, seeing as he's probably working with them. Then again, he never really liked me, so I'm sure pushing me off the ledge can't have been too difficult for him-'

_STOP, STOP, STOP._

'I know it's hard to hear and yeh probably won't believe me 'bout this at all but I know what I heard and- I'm sorry, England, I really am, but-'

'You're wrong,' England whispers.

Scotland looks pained. 'Look, I don't want this to be true either. I never woulda believed it myself if I hadn't actually heard his voice. I never thought he would go that far. I know how much he means to yeh, but it was him who pushed me. Even if he isn't working with yer kidnappers, it still makes sense. He despised me when I told everyone yeh were dead.'

'You're _wrong,'_ England repeats, louder this time.

'And if he _is_ working with them… well, look how he's been following yeh around this last few days. He was in the UK that very next morning after yeh disappeared, Wales saw him. He coulda helped them. Yeh're scared to death of him, everyone can see it. Is it any wonder yeh are, considering he might have helped kidnap and torture yeh-?'

'YOU'RE WRONG!' England screams, pushing himself back, away from Scotland's bed.

'England-'

'He was nowhere near the building this afternoon! He was at his house! I was there; Sealand was there too, you can ask him!'

'Were yeh there the whole time?'

'Shut _up!'_ England cries, clenching his fists.

'I fell out of the building at around half one. Were yeh with him at half one?'

There's a sharp intake of breath from England. By half one, he and Sealand had left America's house. They would have been in the cab by that point, on the way to the park to talk to the fae.

Scotland spots the look of doubt on England's face. 'Yeh weren't with him, were yeh?'

'He couldn't have done it.' England can feel a lump in his throat.

'His house is only about ten minutes by foot from the meeting place, he coulda come back and-'

'He wouldn't. America never would. He's not like. He would never do something like that.'

'England, I'm sorry-'

'Stop _saying_ that!' England's eyes are stinging with tears, but he won't dare let them spill. 'You've known him for five Goddamn years, I've known him for centuries! Don't you dare-'

'Is he here? Is he here at the hospital?' Scotland looks quite worried. 'He might try something else with one of the other countries. We have to warn them-'

'Go to hell,' England spits, turning away from his brother and quickly heading to the door.

'England, please-' Scotland's calls trail away as England races away from the ward.

Wales is busy talking with Germany, France and the others when England reaches the waiting room. The only person not in on their conversation is the one person England is willing to talk to. He rushes over to his younger brother.

'Come on,' England says urgently. 'We have to go. Now.'

Sealand squints in confusion. 'What? Why? What's happening?'

'We're going to see America again. I'll tell you on the way.' England is confident that this is the best thing to do. Scotland will try convincing the other nations that America is guilty, so England has to get to America and warn him before they can do anything. Sealand trusts America and is clearly quite fond of him. The micronation definitely won't believe these accusations.

The two of them are out of the doors before the other nations even spot them.

* * *

'Scotland's an even bigger jerk than you! That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard!'

England is almost amused by Sealand's rant, but he's still too upset from his conversation with Scotland. 'He must have a concussion,' he theorises. 'Like Wales said, he would have hit his head when he fell.'

'Does that mean his brain's all muddled right now?' Sealand asks. 'Is that why he thinks it was America?'

'It had better be,' England says darkly. He's trying as hard as he can not to be angry with Scotland. For crying out loud, the eldest brother almost died today. It's selfish and unfair to be treating him like this, and yet England can't help it.

America is one hundred percent innocent. And England is going to prove it.

'But we were with America the whole time,' Sealand says as their cab pulls up on the street America lives on and they get out of the car.

'There are about twenty minutes America has unaccounted for after we left,' England replies. 'That's Scotland's logic.'

'Scotland's a stupid-head,' Sealand says, pouting.

'That head of his is just confused right now. When the concussion wears off, he'll realise how ridiculous this is,' England says, but he doesn't feel very sure of his words. Scotland seemed pretty certain, and his views probably aren't going to change when he's recovered.

'Will they get the police to come and arrest America?' Sealand asks, and his big eyes look quite frightened at the thought.

'They won't involve humans,' England answers. 'There would be too many questions. The other nations probably won't even believe what Scotland's saying. But we have to warn America, just in case.'

His phone vibrates. It's a message from Wales. _**Are you ok? Is Sealand with you? Have you gone to see America? Please come back. We have to sort this out.**_

Another message. This one is from Germany. _**Until we know more, it would be better to avoid any impractical situations. Your brothers are insistent that you and Sealand return immediately. This might be dangerous.**_

'They're listening to Scotland,' England says, horrified as he stares at his phone. 'Why the hell would they be taking him seriously?'

'Everyone knows that Scotland and America don't like each other very much a lot of the time. They were always arguing over you in world meetings,' Sealand says. 'Maybe they think America really, _really_ hates Scotland…'

'But they can't genuinely believe America would… Canada and Japan definitely won't believe it.'

'They're all a bunch of jerks if they believe it,' Sealand announces.

They reach America's unlocked door and England barges straight in. There's a good chance the other nations will follow them if they don't return soon and they don't have time to waste. 'America?' England calls out hesitantly, but there's no reply. He has to be here, or the door would have been locked. Maybe he's upstairs and he can't hear them?

'You look for him down here. I'm going to check upstairs,' England says, and Sealand grins and salutes him jokingly, once again reminding England of how quickly the micronation can go from being serious to acting like a carefree child.

There's a horrible, uncomfortable feeling gnawing away inside England's stomach. He's nervous about confronting America like every other time he's seen the bigger nation this week, that much is certain. But there's something else too. Genuine fear and… doubt.

 _He didn't do it. He couldn't have. He_ wouldn't _have._

Has he brought Sealand into danger?

 _No. Impossible._ England is overwhelmed with shame. It's bad enough to be thinking all these terrible things about Scotland right now and to be paranoid about almost everyone. But to even consider that America might have…

 _Shame on you. This is_ America.

But he has been acting strange, following England around the whole time. And why the hell is England so unnerved to be around him?

_Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up._

England reaches the top of the stairs and glances around. At the end of the landing, on the left, is America's bedroom. Maybe he's in there. His stomach twists uncomfortably.

 _Shut_ up.

His phone buzzes one more time. It's Canada. _**England, please come back. It's ok. No one here believes America would do it. We know Scotland's just mistaken. He's concussed, he's not thinking straight. It's alright.**_

But he's already here now…

 _'What's wrong? You scared?'_ It's the taunting voice of the red-eyed demon inside his head. It's another brief memory returning of the demon slicing England's skin open with the knife that is now hiding in his pocket. Why is that voice so familiar? Not just because he remembers it from the other world. It was familiar even before that. Something about the demon has always been familiar to him.

England is at the door. His heart is thumping wildly. He can hear the demon laughing inside his head. He knows that laughter.

His hand hovers over his pocket, shaking fearfully. The knife is just there, practically calling for him.

 _No. Stop. Calm down. Breathe. This is stupid._ You _are stupid. Nothing's wrong. There's no demon in your head. He's not here. You are safe._

 _'No one is ever safe,'_ the demon says gleefully, its voice ringing against his skull.

England reaches out for the door handle instead of his knife. He has to be practical. He needs to think logically. But the door is already swinging open.

It's the demon.

Its figure is a little clearer this time. The body is still hazy and bathed in darkness, but its form is a little more prominent. Definitely a man, taller than England, watching him with those deep crimson eyes.

'England!' it says delightedly.

England stumbles back and crashes into the opposite wall of the narrow landing. The chances of his getting away from the demon this time are slim; they are standing only about three feet apart. England tries to run, but his legs won't move. His breaths are frantic and panicked but he manages to get words out anyway.

'Sealand!' he yelps. 'Sealand, get out of here! Run!'

And America? What's happened to him? What has the demon done to him?

The demon is saying something, but England can't hear it. His body is shaking violently in terror and worry and as another vision of the knife carving into his skin flashes across his mind, his legs give way in an instant and he falls to the ground.

_No… no…_

The demon towers over him, still saying something. England's ears are ringing. Has Sealand gotten away? Is America alright? _Am I going to die?_

 _'Only if you're weak. If you're strong, you get to live.'_ The demon's words are just a memory inside his head, from back during the torture. Back when England was wondering if the demon would just finish him off.

The words the demon is saying right now, however, are still muted. England can't hear anything in his panic. He tries to get up but none of his limbs will respond.

_'Weak. Poor, poor England.'_

He gasps, though whether it is out of the pain of his memories or the fear of his current situation, he doesn't know.

_No…_

_'Poor, poor England.'_

The demon is leaning down, closing in for the attack. England closes his eyes, not wanting to see the crimson pair anymore.

_'Poor, poor-'_

'Iggy?'

There's sound. The silence has stopped. England can hear his own frantic breathing and the blood roaring in his ears. He opens his eyes and looks up.

The dark aura around the demon is slowly dissipating. Its appearance is becoming prominent: a suit, probably for a meeting. Blonde hair. The crimson from its eyes is fading into a light blue.

England's eyes widen in shock. _No. It can't be…_

'Iggy?' America says softly. 'Iggy, it's me. Can you hear me?'

He looks scared. His hand is reaching out for England, quite hesitantly. England jumps violently in shock and America retracts his hand quickly. England doesn't know what to think. This can't be happening. This can't be real.

But here's his answer. Why he kept seeing the demon around the other nations, why America's eyes flashed red earlier on.

_No… please, no…_

America is the demon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of my reviewers were coming up with theories about America being the demon, and I gotta say I'm proud of you guys! Just to confirm for one of my readers who asked, yes, like I said back in chapter one, this will be USUK. It just so happens that I prefer it when their relationship develops over the story, as opposed to established relationship stories. And I like a good dose of angst and complications too, hence me putting in the whole Americaphobia thing England has.
> 
> As for Sealand, he's still going to be important too. I didn't just want him in the plot for him being able to hear England over those five years. Sealand's still got an important part to play. It's hard with him, because on the one hand he's this relevant character who actually possesses quite powerful magic but at the same time I want to establish that he's still this optimistic, playful, rather innocent kid. I hope I'm managing to maintain both whilst writing his character.
> 
> I want to get round to dealing with all of England's psychological issues too. He honestly deserves it by now. The other characters are quite keen to address the situation, so I expect I'll be writing some sort of confrontation scene sooner or later.
> 
> Definitely more 2P stuff next chapter, I promise!
> 
> Right, well that was quite lengthy and it has gone 1am. My bed beckons to me.
> 
> Thanks for reading, remember to review, and toodles!


	13. Breaking Tears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like with the last chapter, I had trouble writing this when I started, then I just kind of eased into it, which naturally leads me to finish it at some ungodly hour of the morning. This looks like it will be up by 3:30AM, which isn't actually that bad by my standards, I'm ashamed to say.
> 
> Just like every other chapter of anything I've ever written, the update is irregular. I've tried keeping schedules before and they just don't work out XD
> 
> Warnings: Dark themes. Referenced torture, but I didn't exactly go into detail. I'll save that for later ;). Tragic stuff too, but that's part of the package deal with my stories. Angst included at no extra cost.
> 
> This chapter marks the beginning of England's breaking point. There's only so much psychological and physical damage alike someone can take before something snaps inside them.
> 
> Allons-y!

_He has no choice. He'll die if he doesn't do it. Though he's still not entirely convinced he isn't already dead._

_The cupcake today is pink with little white polka dots of icing. If this were any other situation, it would look delicious. England is sickened by the sight. It appears innocent and inviting, much like its creator. Other England is all smiles and cheerful chatter, but he is so much more than that. He is so much_ worse _than that._

_He hasn't actually visited England since he left the first cupcake, which the latter has been rather relieved about. But every time England awakens, there's always a new cupcake waiting for him. He's kicked them and trodden on them and even tried pushing them through the bars of his window, refusing to indulge in them. But after one whole month of being trapped in this cell, England doesn't have any other options._

_It's been one month since he's eaten anything. It's been one month since he's drank anything. Even for a country, that's pushing it way too far. His wounds aren't what's keeping him down now; on the contrary, he's learnt to cope with the pain to the extent that he barely even notices it's there now- or maybe it is genuinely fading away. No, the reason England can barely stand on his own two feet now is because he's desperately weak from lack of sustenance. No need to sugar-coat things, really. The fact of the matter is, England is dying._

_He'll never escape like this. Not if he can barely move. So he has to do this. It's the only way._

_He drags his body over to the cupcake and reaches out with a shaking hand to pick it up. Lifting it to his nose, England sniffs it cautiously. There is is, stronger than ever: that sickeningly sweet aroma. Not that it matters, really. England's going to have to eat it anyway._

_He brings it to his lips and closes his eyes._

_It truly is delicious, something England relishes instantly. Almost anything would taste delicious to him after a whole month of not eating, especially considering- as the other countries would put it- he's always been able to eat his own terrible food._

_There's red inside the cake, jam probably, though it's more liquid-like and tastes purely of the sugary sweet smell that is exuding from the cake. England gags a little as he swallows it. It is pleasing to taste but some element of it is less tangible. It feels wrong and unnatural._

_His stomach is more than a little pleased, however, and accepts the food without any threat of retching. England supposes he should be grateful for that, yet somehow he isn't. He just wishes it hadn't had to have come to this._

* * *

_The next time he wakes up, he's certain he's going to die._

_His stomach is on fire, much like his chest was when he first arrived here. But it's not a blaring pain, screaming in agony. It's a subtle, twisting sensation, slicing into his skin like a razor sharp knife, and it is still absolute torture. He is coughing up blood again- or is it that red liquid from earlier?_

_(What's the difference?)_

'Help,' _England lets out internally, putting every last ounce of his strength into maintaining a mental connection between himself and anyone who might be able to hear him. Even in his thoughts, his voice sounds like a whimper._ 'I'm going to die... Help, please help...'

* * *

_'England?'_

_His eyelids flutter open slowly. Even opening his eyes is a strain now. He's so tired. His legs are tired, his arms are tired, his whole body is tired. Almost everything he can see is blurry and any sound that reaches his ears is distorted and echoing. There's a black tinged edge around his vision._

I'm definitely dying, _he thinks dully._ Not long now. _For some reason, the thought doesn't alarm him. He's just slipping slowly into it. It might even be peaceful if it weren't so cold._

_There was a noise, wasn't there? Just then, a few seconds ago. A muffled voice, maybe? Has Other England come back?_

_'England,' says the voice. The word doesn't make any sense at first. After a few seconds, England registers that it is in fact his name. Someone is calling to him. Or perhaps to Other England. But Other England isn't here._

_'England! You in there?'_

_England's face is pressed against the floor. He opens his mouth to reply but he can't quite form a word, or figure out which word to say. Nothing in his head makes any sense anymore. All he knows is that he wants to sleep._

_'Come on, England! Please tell me you're in there!'_

_The voice rings with familiarity. Nothing is working the way it should be in England's head right now but he registers this much. The tone is one he recognises._ Not a bad voice. Not the other me. Someone else. Not bad. Good.

_Maybe help has arrived._

_England forces his head to turn as much as it needs to so that he can catch a glimpse of the window. He's pretty sure that's where the voice is coming from. Sure enough, once his eyes have managed to finally focus he can see a silhouette on the other side of the bars. He opens his mouth again and tries to call out. A rasping moan comes out instead._

_He hears a sigh of relief. 'Thank God you're in there. Hold on- I'm gonna get you outta there!'_

_England can't say anything. He can barely hear the words, let alone understand them._

_There's a horrible screeching noise that lasts for a few seconds and then a crashing sound. At the edge of England's peripheral, blurring vision he can see the bars of the windows being wrenched from the sockets by the sheer force of the silhouette alone. That shouldn't be possible. Nobody should be able to possess such strength… except…_

_With his last ounce of strength, England utters his first word in weeks._

_'… America…?'_

* * *

_He comes to staring at the sky. Spread out over the black canvas are patches of extremely dark clouds. There's no light anywhere. No reflections of any city light, and no stars either. Not even the moon._

_There's something in his throat as well. Smooth and refreshing. Cold, but not uncomfortably so. It's nice._

_England gulps down the water quickly and doesn't stop until the entire contents of the bottle that's being held to his lips has been emptied completely._

_'Better?' asks the voice. England can hear it a lot better now, and he can understand it too. He nods gratefully._

_Something shifts ever so slightly beneath him. His head and upper back is being supported by someone's arm while the rest of his body is lying on the ground. He's no longer in his cell. He's out in the open, being held and helped by someone beside him._

_'You look really thin. When was the last time you ate?' says the voice._

_England glances up at his rescuer. He can see a lot better now, and he doesn't quite feel as dazed anymore. It's very dark but now that his thoughts are coherent, he definitely recognises the shape of the body._

' _Are you okay? What happened? We were all worried about you!' America says._

_But England hasn't quite registered the implications of America being here. It's as if his very presence isn't actually real. What is real, however, as England's mind quickly screams at him, is that they are out in the open at night time, when the pack roams in the darkness._

_'The wolves,' he gasps. 'Wolves-'_

_He expects America to laugh and tell him that he's delusional and that there are no wolves in Britain, but the bigger nation just chuckles lightly and says, 'Don't worry, they won't bother us.'_

_'A… America-' The reality is finally dawning on England. He is free from his prison. He hasn't died. America is here. America has_ rescued _him._

_He chokes a little on his own words. Using his voice after such a long time is painful and the water hasn't helped soothe his throat completely. He's still desperately weak, too. It's going to be a long time before he's fully healed and restored to his former state._

_His eyelids are getting heavy again, though this time it is genuine sleep that is calling to him, not death. England feels as if he should be reassured by that, but he's not. He can't rest now. Is he even safe yet?_

_Well, America's here. America, who usually would have cracked a joke about the dire situation England's in. Perhaps he's in such a bad state that even America is struggling to find an amusing side to it. The bigger nation is still supporting England in a half sitting position, and if he were to let go England would fall for sure._

_America is strangely quiet, waiting patiently for England to finish coughing. He would usually be chatting away about all sorts of nonsense and probably throw in a little light teasing here and there. Perhaps he really is fazed by all of this._

_England feels as if he's waiting for something too, but he's not sure what for. He's still severely disoriented and unsure about whether or not he should feel safe._

_Then it clicks, properly this time- he_ is _safe. Properly this time. America has saved him. Much rather America than plenty of the other nations. He is strong and he's… well, he's_ America. _England feels relief washing over him in an instant and for the first time in this last month, he feels content, even if it's only a little bit._

_'You want some more water?' America asks, and he actually sounds concerned. England nods, feeling a rather delirious need to smile, one he can't really explain._

_America must have brought a bag with him because England can vaguely make out him rummaging around with his free hand before pulling out another bottle of water._

_'You've been gone for a month,' he says as England downs the second bottle. 'We had no idea what had happened to you. Who did this to you?'_

_In the right frame of mind, England would hesitate telling the truth to America. He knows he would come across as crazy, and that would give America and the other nations all the more reason to label him as deranged. But England is currently rather overwhelmed with having been rescued by America, who isn't teasing him but is instead being openly sympathetic._

_'Other me,' England manages. 'Another England. Bad.'_

_America doesn't laugh. He doesn't mock England and call him a crazy old man. Instead, his grip on England seems to tighten and he says, 'I'm sorry, England. I should have found you sooner. I'm gonna get you home, okay?'_

_If England weren't so weakened, not just physically but mentally too, he would be making note of all these peculiarities. It's taking him far too long to register anything at the present time, however, and he feels almost comfortable in the knowledge that America is here and that he cares, and that England is no longer trapped in that horrible empty room._

_It takes him a few seconds to even realise that he is no longer on the ground and that America is pulling him up and hoisting him onto his back. England feels relieved that he won't have to walk, at least, because he knows that he would fail spectacularly if he tried. America is being awfully considerate, like a true gentleman. Or a hero, as he'd probably prefer to be called._

_And that's when the knowledge of what England was waiting for earlier dawns on him. America hasn't delivered an 'I'm the hero' speech yet, to England's knowledge. Shouldn't he have done that by now?_

_'Let's get out of here,' America says, once England is secure on his back._

_They appear to be on a darkened street and in a flash of fear England spots the little window on the bottom of the building to the right of them, the bars having been torn off by America. So they haven't exactly gotten very far away from England's prison. Despite his known inhuman strength, even America shouldn't have been able to pull the bars off with such ease. But he clearly did._

_Once again, England wonders where the wolves are. But America told him not to worry, and England trusts in what America has to say. The bigger nation has come to rescue him and has promised to get him home safely. If America hadn't shown up when he did, England would have died._

_England relaxes as America starts walking. He feels warmth spreading over him. It's going to be alright. They'll get home safely and whatever nightmare this is will be over._

_But…_

_It doesn't make any sense. None of it._

No, _England chides himself internally, shifting uncomfortably._ Don't spoil it. This is good. America is here. Everything's going to be alright.

Please let it all be alright.

_But England is delirious, and he is starting to acknowledge this. He knows he's not thinking properly, and now he's starting to question everything._

_This is another world. That's why there's another London and another England. So how did America get here? How did he know where and how to find England?_

Stop… _England quietly begs his mind._ Why can't everything just be okay?

_America's not acting like himself. Too… empathetic. Too considerate. America isn't cruel, not by a long shot, but he's rarely so thoughtful when it comes to England's wellbeing. He really should be teasing England by now and boasting about his heroic escapade. He's being overly compassionate this evening and hasn't once said anything even remotely egotistical._

Don't ruin this, _England growls inside his head._ He cares after all. He's brave and kind, really. You know he's not as obtuse as he pretends to be.

_But there's one more thing as well. One of the things America said earlier on._

We were all worried about you!

 _That doesn't sound right. Not at all._ Most of the other nations despise me, _England allows himself to think._ They'd probably rejoice at my disappearance. This can't be right.

_America has stopped. He can only have walked about twenty feet in total, but he's come off the street and is instead standing in front of the house England was locked up in. 'Here we are,' he says._

_England blinks in confusion. 'Wait… what? No. This is where I was locked up. We have to get away from here.'_

_America chuckles. 'Don't worry, England. This is our stop.'_

_'America- no. What are you talking about? We need to go, now-'_

_America ignores him and knocks loudly on the door._

_'America?' England yelps, his stomach sinking horribly and the coldness washing over him once more. This isn't happening. It can't be._ Please don't let this be real. Please…

_The door swings open and Other England stands there, smiling widely. The light in the house are on behind him and England is finally able to observe his doppelgänger's appearance without merely the light of the faraway fires or the dim daylight inside the cell. Other England's hair is a very pale blonde, bordering on an almost pinkish hue. His eyes are just as England depicted them before- a disturbing electric blue._

_'Got your little runaway,' America announces, and it takes all of England's willpower not to cry out in despair and horror. His stomach isn't the only thing twisting in fright; his chest is also squirming and burning and his heart is beating faster than ever._

_Other England smirks. 'Tut tut. You let him out in the first place.'_

_'Just wanted to have some fun,' America replies casually, and England can feel him shrug._

_In a bid to escape, England tries to wriggle off America's back and ends up collapsing onto the ground behind him. Wincing in the new pain in his back, England gasps in short breaths, winded. Above him, America and Other England watch him distantly._

_'America,' England chokes. There are tears stinging in his eyes._ No, don't do it. Have to… have to be strong…

 _But everything's falling apart. This can't be right._ America.

_America. Whom he raised. America, whom he's known for centuries. His family-to-enemy-to-ally-to-kind-of-but-not-really-friend. America, whom he cares about regardless. America, who will always mean so much to him, even if he is reluctant to admit it, even to himself._

_America._

No, please no, not America, anyone but America, please not America-

_Is he saying this out loud? Is that why they're both smirking down at him?_

_Oh, what does it matter? Nothing matters anymore._

_'Having fun down there?' America asks. His crimson eyes sparkle in amusement._

_Wait. Crimson?_

_'I like how this played out,' Other England says thoughtfully. 'What a fun little game this is. Are we done for tonight?'_

_America grins. 'Not by a long shot. You plan out the next game if you want to, I'm gonna finish this one.'_

_Other England squeals in delight and grasps America's arm. 'Oh, thank you! I'll get to it right away! We're going to have so much fun!' He turns around and races off into the house immediately, a little skip in his step._

_England tries to shift from his spot but he is not nearly strong enough to move more than a couple of inches. America reaches down and pulls England roughly off the ground. He is forced onto his feet but he can't use them properly and they are unable to support him. Being kept upright only by America's iron grip, England is dragged back into the house._

_'America,' he whimpers, his voice little more than a ghost-like whisper._

' _It's alright, England,' America says with a smile. It looks twisted as it etches its way onto his face. 'Like he said- we're going to have so much fun…'_

* * *

_'Sleeping means letting your guard down. Aren't going to make that little mistake again, are we?'_

_A knife traces a thin but deep line of blood across his bare chest and he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming._

_America watches him, almost seeming a little impressed, though he covers it well behind those malicious crimson eyes. 'I could give you hell and it won't make a difference, will it?'_

_He changes the angle of the knife as the blade reaches his abdomen, pointing the tip of the weapon against England's bare skin and gently plunging it through the flesh. England lets out a groan of pain as the agony flares through his stomach, but shows no reaction other than this._

_America grins. He seems to almost tremble in anticipation. 'Thanks,' he says quietly. 'I like a challenge.'_

* * *

_It must be morning by now. They've been at it for hours. Repetitive in concept, yet varied in execution- like a game, hardening with each new round. England has long since given into his tears; America always was able to bring out the more human side of England._

_It's him, every detail. The blonde hair, the glasses, the cowlick, the beloved bomber jacket. Everything but the eyes._

_When America brings out a new toy to play with- a selection of knives, a blunt instrument here and there, even a machete at one point- England closes his eyes and tries to pretend that it is simply America picking up cutlery so he can dig into whichever meal he has decided to have for lunch today._

_When America whispers cruel words in his ear- no longer fully distinguishable in England's pained mind, and yet he always seems to comprehend the malicious content anyway- England keeps his eyes closed and envisions America on any other day, merely teasing him about his food, his age, his eyebrows, anything but this._

_And each time America uses his name- always_ England _, spoken meaningfully as if he has some power over the name itself- England imagines his real name being cast aside and replaced with an infuriating nickname instead, like America always does inevitably. England refuses to open his eyes for fear of looking straight into America's and seeing crimson. He pictures those eyes he's known for centuries, the sky blue eyes that should be there but aren't, bright with the determination and hope and dreams that America always seemed to carry with him._

 _The America he knows._ My America.

_But England's entire perception has been overthrown. Every memory of America is etched with doubt and stained with this new reality. The America he knew is dead. The America he knew is non-existent. The America he knew could never have truly been there, because how can someone like that simply become someone like this? England must have gotten it wrong all along. Everything he ever thought about America must be wrong._

_But that can't be it. The America he thought he knew was real. He had to be. The happy, optimistic, strong, resilient, determined country can't have always been an illusion. That smiling child in the field on the day they met can't simply be a lie, a mask, a façade. America really was that person._

_And now he isn't._

_Now he's a monster._

* * *

England should never have woken up.

And yet, at the same time it is the biggest relief at all. Or rather, it is until he remembers that none of that was simply just a bad dream and was in fact another memory returning to him. An extremely _vivid_ memory.

For the second time this week, his return to consciousness is accompanied by an ear-splitting scream. He throws his covers off and rolls over, tumbling out of bed in an instant. He registers no pain whatsoever as his body crashes into the floor (after all, nothing, _nothing in the world_ right now will compare to the pain he felt in his flashback). He quickly fumbles around for his knife and his stomach leaps horribly in shock when he discovers he's not wearing his jacket he was carrying his knife in. His suit and tie have been removed too, leaving his shirt underneath.

Someone has taken his knife-

'England? Are you alr- Hey, hey! It's okay!' comes a soft voice from somewhere above him. His heads shoots up and takes in the sight of a tall figure standing there, watching him in the semi darkness with those all too familiar features.

England cries out in panic and tries to scramble backwards in an effort to get away. The dream hasn't ended; it can't have done. This is just how it was before- lying on the ground, staring up in pain at _them._ He has no idea where Other England has gone or why he doesn't feel as weak as he did before but… _he_ is still here, leering down at him with those crimson eyes-

Except there's no leering. And the eyes aren't crimson. They're not blue, either.

They're _violet._

'It's over now,' Canada says uncertainly, seemingly unsure of whether he should just stay exactly where he is or whether he should lean down and try and help England. 'It was a bad dream. You're awake, England.'

'Can- Canada?' England says shakily. Once again, he has mistaken Canada for _him._ He verbalises the name, not as a revelation but more as a question, because England needs confirmation that it really is Canada standing above him. He no longer trusts his own eyes.

'Yeah,' Canada says gently, finally drawing to the conclusion that he should try reaching out to England. But England flinches in an instant, images of _him_ reaching out for him, holding him in his arms, promising that everything was going to be okay and then- and then…

'S-sorry,' Canada says quickly, terrified at his former caretaker's reaction.

'W… W-where-?' England chokes out.

Canada misunderstands, naturally assuming that England is inquiring as to his location, instead of as to where a certain someone is, which is what England really wants to know. 'Your hotel room, England. We're in your hotel room. You've been resting for a few hours. It's night time.'

England grasps onto the bed and hauls himself unsteadily to his feet. 'Um, I'm not so sure that's a good idea-' Canada tries to say but England is already spinning around on the spot, trying to catch a glimpse of his knife _(the knife that is slicing into his skin, cutting and piercing and jabbing-)_. It has to be here, it just _has_ to be _(Oh God, I'm dying, please let it be here, I_ need _it-)._ The knife, once a weapon being used to slowly kill him, is now the only thing that can _protect_ his life.

'K-knife-' he coughs, hoping that Canada will understand.

The sound of a light switching off somewhere in the hotel room alerts England that there's someone else here, someone coming out of the bathroom. Barely suppressing another cry of panic, England focuses on the door in an instant.

'Is everything alright? I thought I 'eard a scream- oh, Angleterre, you're awake!'

 _No, no, no, no, no,_ England's mind moans. Everything hurts enough already without the reminder that more than one nation has betrayed him. _He_ might not be here right now, but France is.

What if… _(Oh God no,_ please _no)_ What if Canada's a part of this too?

 _He can't. He can't be. Please, please, please. He can't be. But I thought that about them as well. I can't trust anyone. Where's_ he _gone? Has_ he _left me with Canada and France? Are they going to finish me off instead?_

There's more than just a sob working its way up inside England. Despite his unsteady balance, despite France standing right there in his way, England bolts into the bathroom, collapses in front of the toilet and promptly retches up everything in his stomach (which, as it turns out, isn't very much at all).

He's not entirely sure at which point he finishes retching and begins sobbing instead. Throughout the ordeal, his body continues to shake violently. He can feel the tears, hot on his cheeks, his eyes almost stinging as much as the burning in his throat. He becomes aware of a hand on back, rubbing it gently. Instead of feeling comforted by it like a part of him still knows he should be, the touch only makes the shaking worse.

'… mentioned his knife,' he finally becomes aware of Canada saying.

'Oui, Écosse mentioned that 'e 'as an attachment to the blade. A fixation, I suppose.'

'God… this is so terrible… Can you hear me, England? Please give me a sign you can hear me.'

England reaches up with shaking hands to cover his face. He closes his eyes tightly. He doesn't want to see anything. He wants the tears to disappear.

'Angleterre?' France prompts. There's no sneer in his voice, no mockery. 'Listen. If you can 'ear us, just listen. Your frères aren't 'ere right now, so they asked us to stay 'ere with you in case you woke up. Écosse is still in 'ospital, of course. Your petit frère, Sealand, was it…?'

'Sealand,' Canada confirms. 'Italy and Japan are looking after him right now. Italy will keep him entertained and Japan's quite responsible, so he should be in safe hands. Wales is, um, talking things over with Germany and Russia, and…'

England holds his breath, his face still hidden behind his hands.

'America's with them,' Canada finishes. 'Like I said. They're, uh, talking things over. He called us after you… collapsed.'

France takes a deep breath. 'We all thought it best if we kept you out of 'ospital. Écosse ending up in there is trouble enough, especially if the 'umans mention it in the media, which they undoubtedly will. Besides, the doctors won't exactly understand what 'appened to you. The best people with a chance of understanding you are your fellow nations- us.' He gives a nervous laugh. 'Though I must say, Angleterre, you are not making it easy.'

'We thought this would be the best place for you right now,' Canada says. 'You don't look like you've been sleeping much lately. You should probably get some more rest; it's late anyway.'

England can feel hands gently grasping his shoulders and lifting him to a standing position. He staggers a little and his hands drop down from his face. The tears in his eyes are blurring his vision but he can just make out Canada to the side of him, helping him stay upright, and France directly in front, holding something out.

'Just something to take away the aftertaste,' he offers.

England doesn't accept it. As sour as his mouth currently tastes, he isn't taking anything unknown from an enemy. From _France._

_(Please, please, please…)_

'England,' Canada coaxes him kindly, somehow sensing England's discomfort. 'It's just a mint. It's okay.'

England's weariness and a lack of care win out in the end. He's tired and his own life is starting to not seem altogether important anymore. It isn't simply the cruel jabs at his own worth and all the other horrible words that were whispered in his ear during his ordeal. His empty weariness is transpiring from something a lot more peaceful. He remembers how he lay for a month in that cell, slowly dying, and how in the end it merely felt like falling asleep. That's it. That's all there is to it, really.

He's so, so tired.

He should never have woken up. The waking world is just composed of fear and confusion and pain. And yes, his dreams are full of these things too, but at least they're providing him with answers. They're filling in the gaps. They're solving the riddles. And maybe then everything might _mean_ something once more.

So he takes the mint from France and he allows Canada to lead him back to his bed. When he finally rests his head again and closes his eyes, his mind doesn't drift to the whereabouts of his knife, because it no longer matters to him whether or not he is safe. Rather, he already believes he knows to the answer to that. He's not safe. He's never safe.

And he doesn't care.

* * *

(No.)

 _America's red eyes are wrong. His words are wrong. His smile is wrong, his laugh is wrong,_ he _is_ _wrong._

_England opens his eyes and stares directly into the crimson pair. He speaks clearly and calmly, with no hesitation and no break in voice, two words._

_'Not America.'_

_The imposter stares at him. England holds his gaze, either unable to look away or simply refusing to._

_That child in the field with the bright blue eyes and the pure smile could never become this. The nation who proposes insane ideas at world meetings for how to save the planet, the country who is always happily joking around, the same young man who fought for what his people wanted and gained his independence; the America England knows is not and will never be this America._

_He won't believe it. He never, ever will._

_'Not America,' he repeats, his eyes fixed on the imposter's._

_For the tiniest moment, the imposter's image shimmers slightly into a different colour scheme. His hair and skin darken, the former to an auburn-brown and the latter to a tan. This new appearance seems to compliment the crimson eyes, and they finally don't seem so out of place. A few seconds later, however, the former image of the America England knows replaces the sudden change once again as if nothing happened. Almost like a hologram._

An enchantment, _England registers._ This is magic. Someone's enchanted him to look like the America from my world. To trick me into trusting him in the beginning, probably. To hurt me all the more.

_But no amount of magic is going to work on England anymore. He's got a glimpse of what the imposter really looks like: an inverted copy of America, much like Other England is to England._

_A hand flies up to England's throat, quickly pressing a knife against his skin. 'Got anything else to say?' Other America says. His voice is strained and accompanied by a forced smirk. It disappears in a flash of surprise when he catches a sight of the expression on the figure beneath him._

_England is smiling. The tears in his eyes aren't just from the pain, they are from relief, too. He almost looks gleeful. He must be delirious. Perhaps the pressure on his throat is too much, or maybe he's simply reached his level of endurance._

_Other America's hand, still clasped around England's throat, quivers slightly in shock._

_England looks up at him, not shying away from the crimson pair of eyes. Oh yes. He certainly does have something to say. He wants the monster above him to know who has won and who has lost._

_The little but meaningful smile is still gently etched on his face. He gazes at the red eyes and pictures the blue ones, safe inside his head where they can't be touched._

_'Not America,' he whispers._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've included a scene from chapter 3 in here. Of course, back then I referred to England's torturer as 'the demon', whereas this time round he is called 'America'.
> 
> I've actually sort of been hinting at something being off about America since the second chapter. In chapter 2, England has a seemingly unprovoked panic attack and starts hearing 'the demon'/Other America's voice in his head directly after America's name is mentioned. He remembers the red eyes for the first time not long afterwards. In chapter 4, while he is in the library, his thoughts briefly drift to America at one point and the voice appears in his head again. I like to include the little details, I guess XD
> 
> Honestly, you guys are amazing. I had no idea this story would interest people so much. The main reason for writing it was mostly because I'd run out of fanfictions to read myself and I really wanted to read very particular genres. And you know what they say to authors- write what you yourself would want to read. Or something like that. I am fully indulged in this story. I absolutely love writing it and I'm happy that so many of you enjoy reading it!
> 
> Remember to review, and toodles!


	14. Facing Fears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, by this point I want to wrap England up in a blanket, give him a cup of tea and tell him he's loved and everything's going to be okay. Instead, Imma just give him a bit more hell. Because reasons. XD
> 
> I think America's perspective of the last couple of days in the story deserves some acknowledgement. He's being put through a lot of crap too. So I have a couple of scenes that were previously written from England's perspective, now showing America's instead. Plus some extra stuff that England was too drunk to remember.
> 
> Warnings: the usual. Yep.
> 
> Allons-y!

_Knife. Ash._

He can almost taste the white flakes on his lips, almost hear the wolves howling in the night. Trapped between one reality and the other, England isn't sure which one he's currently living.

But as he opens his eyes, it becomes clear. The details of his hotel room come into focus. The lighting is a little brighter than it was when he was awake last, which means it's probably not night time any more.

_Rationalise,_ his head quickly says, but his instincts are always dominant when he awakens. He throws the covers off and manages to think clearly just long enough to give him enough time to establish that he won't be too dizzy in an upright position. Once he's certain he's not going to fall over if he stands up (five seconds seem long enough to assess the situation), he climbs out of bed.

Neither France nor Canada have used the spare bed belonging to Scotland, instead both opting to use two armchairs in the corner near England's bed. They're fast asleep, appearing as if they were in a conversation before they drifted off. Probably discussing how they should go about killing England.

_Rationalise,_ he thinks again.

No. If they were going to kill him, they would have done it by now; they've had every opportunity. If they're working with the nations in the other world then they must need him for something. After all, Other England, Other America and any others that might exist could have killed him at any point over the last five years, but they _didn't._ Sure, he almost died in the cell, but they stopped it from happening in the end. England has only recollected a month's worth of memories from his imprisonment in the other world so far, but he's certain his time in the cell, curtesy of Other England's first 'game', probably wasn't the only time he came close to death. He dreads to think what all the other 'games' did to him. A part of him is starting to wish he won't actually remember anymore. But he has to.

Breathe in. _Rationalise._ Breathe out.

Hypothetically, what if France and Canada aren't going to kill him?

England doesn't want to hope (God knows, hope never got him anywhere in the other world) but he has to approach this from every angle. He remembers only a few hours ago when Canada was helping him clear up the mirror shards, trying to make him feel better.

'If you're going to trust anyone, you should trust him,' Canada had said at the time, referring to America.

_He told me to trust America. That didn't work out. I had a panic attack and collapsed at his house. Trusting America in the other world didn't work out, either._

_But that was a different America._

Could it have been that Canada was tricking England into once again putting his trust in the enemy? Was this part of some elaborate plan to break England down? Because if so, it definitely worked.

Or maybe Canada was simply saying these things in an effort to help England feel safe. Perhaps he said it out of genuine concern, not treacherous intent. _That_ sound more like the Canada England knows. That sounds like the logical answer.

_(Please.)_

So, if Canada is hypothetically not an enemy, what about France?

The incident the other night, right outside the hotel, concerning the confrontation between France and the demon… it has to be looked at from another angle.

The demon is America. So it was in fact a confrontation between France and America, and England interpreted a little differently because he was… hallucinating? If this is the case, then France may not be cooperating with the other world after all. He might not be an enemy.

_(Please.)_

England stands over the two sleeping nations, not moving an inch. He just watches for a few seconds, thinking.

_Not enemies. (Please.) Not enemies._

He turns around and glances at the table beside his bed. The little clock reads 4:36am, which means England might have a little time to get his head together before he is disturbed by any of the other nations. And although France and Canada aren't currently conscious, England would prefer a little more solitude than this. Some fresh air might be good.

After freshening up in the bathroom a little, making sure to do so quietly so as not to awaken the sleeping countries, England pulls his coat on and casts one last look around the hotel room. He knows it would be too much to hope for his knife to be in here somewhere. Logically, it should be on his person in case another entity shows up, which has probably occurred to the other nations. On the other hand, they all currently think he's batshit crazy and shouldn't be in possession of a dangerous weapon with such a damaged mental state, especially since he's been having fits and doesn't trust anyone. They probably think he might lash out and hurt someone. No wonder they've taken his knife off him.

England sighs and resigns to the fact that he'll be making his journey without the blade.

He's greeted with a rather unexpected horror as he steps out of the front doors of the hotel. The sun hasn't risen yet, of course, yet the world isn't in complete darkness. It's colder than before, with a nasty chill biting at his skin the second he leaves the indoor warmth. A few cars drive past here and then but for the most part the street is fairly deserted. A street lamp overhead illuminates the surprise awaiting England.

It's snowing.

* * *

_America steps out of the elevator as he reaches the ground floor, wondering whether he'll have enough time to stop by at the nearest McDonald's and grab a bite to eat before the break's over. Maybe he'll even have enough time to visit the hotel Scotland and England are staying at and visit the latter, though he suspects that his presence won't be appreciated._

_America sighs. It's not that England outwardly displays dislike for America. On the contrary, England seems to be trying very hard to conceal it, but the fear is clear in his eyes and even someone like America can pick up on that._

_France, Germany, Japan and Russia are walking together, heading off down a corridor in deep conversation. America hears them mention England's name a couple of times, which isn't very surprising. The recently returned nation has been the main topic of conversation for the G8, especially while England has been vacant from the meetings._

_America has almost reached the front glass doors when he spots a figure on his left and turns to see England himself, on the floor and pressed up against the pillar. For once, his face is displaying the emotions and thoughts that must be running through his head, as he is probably under the impression that no one can currently see him. His expression is full of anguish and he seems frozen in place, staring ahead but not really seeing, his mind far away._

_He would have heard the other nations talking about him, and something they said must have upset him. The old America might have laughed and teased England about always getting offended so easily, but England isn't the only one who has changed over the last five years. He's already treading on thin ice with England and he doubts ridiculing him is going to help._

_So he smiles and steps in front of the other nation, trying to appear as friendly and agreeable as possible. 'Hey, England. What are you doing down there?'_

_To his horror, England's eyes widen in pure fear and he opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. He seems to press himself closer to the pillar, seemingly paralysed in fear._

_America hesitates for a second, mentally cursing. He was meant to do this carefully so as not to alarm England too badly, and he has failed miserably. America feels rather scared himself at the thought of England being so terrified of him. Those green eyes are seeing right through him. Perhaps it isn't actually America that England is afraid of? Maybe England's seeing things, maybe he's just daydreaming or hallucinating or something like that. America takes a step closer. 'What's wrong?' he prompts, still wearing the smile and hoping England will recognise it. 'It's just me.'_ Can't you see me? What can you see instead?

_England pushes himself away from the pillar and stumbles to his feet, looking very unsteady. In an instant he darts off towards the main entrance and throws himself at the doors, quickly racing off and out of sight. America calls after him but it's already too late._

* * *

_That night, America heads round to Japan's hotel room, deciding that distracting himself with video games sounds like a good thing to do. Japan himself probably knows to some extent why America isn't quite as cheerful or lively as he usual. After all, the countries have all spent a significant portion of the meeting today rather tentatively mentioning England every so often as the island nation wasn't there to hear them._

_Or so they think, anyway._

_After a couple of hours, America makes up his mind. He's going to confront England and try and clear this all up. He's deeply unsettled by England's apparent fear of him and it will probably be in both their best interests if they somehow find a way to resolve this._

_So he eventually leaves Japan's hotel room and ventures over to where Scotland and England are staying. He overheard France talking earlier about getting a drink with Scotland at the hotel bar. England might be with them._

_As he reaches the front entrance, he spots France about to head into the building, just as expected. He picks up his pace, racing towards the elder nation._

_'Hey, France!' he calls out._

_France turns around. 'Ah, bonjour, Amérique! Will you be joining us? Écosse and I are meeting 'ere.'_

_America shrugs and grins. 'Scotland probably won't want me there, let's be honest. Besides, I, uh… came to see England. Will he be with you guys?'_

_France sighs. 'One can 'ope.' Then he shakes his head and laughs, as if the mere motion is ridiculous. 'Who would 'ave thought, me actually wishing for Angleterre's company! In any case, 'e will probably just 'ide away in 'is room. That is, if 'e doesn't decide to go for a walk instead. Écosse says 'e does that a lot.'_

_America lets out a laugh. 'Well, I guess I just gotta hope he's there, huh? And that he'll want to see me.'_

_He doesn't actually mean to say that last part aloud and immediately regrets it._

_There's a pitying look on France's face. 'Don't let it upset you, Amérique. Angleterre… 'e doesn't mean to behave this way, that much is clear.' He reaches up and puts a reassuring hand on America's shoulder. 'I'm sure you'll both be able to work your way around it and resolve any problems. I don't think 'e can 'elp the way 'e acts around everyone, including you. And you know 'e cares about you very deeply.'_

_America scoffs, but he's feeling quite warm inside. 'Dude, cut it out. The sap is gross. And this is Iggy we're talking about. The guy pretty much only cares about tea,' he jokes._

_France smiles. 'Well, I'm going inside. Are you coming?'_

_America ponders this for a second. 'Just a few more minutes. I, uh… I'm gonna think things through a little.'_

_France nods wisely. 'Don't 'urt yourself.'_

_'Hey!'_

_Laughing, France walks over to the entrance and disappears inside, and America stands there for a second, beginning to think through exactly what he should say to England._

_He only has a few minutes to gather his thoughts, however, before he is greeted with the sight of England himself, exiting the building in a furious pace, an icy scowl printed quite clearly on his features. He turns right and walks in the opposite direction from the one America was approaching the hotel from._

_America remembers how Scotland mentioned earlier on in the meeting today that England went out for a walk in the dead of night and didn't return until the morning. Perhaps this is just another late night wondering. But where exactly did England go last night? Where is he going this time?_

_The second question is answered fairly quickly. As America follows the other nation down the next couple of streets, he notices England is heading for a bar. America breathes a sigh of relief. Here's one thing that hasn't changed about England; it's almost reassuring._

_Being the hero, though, America should probably stop it from happening. England can't hold his liquor very well and will likely start complaining about all his problems very loudly after a few pints, which has always seemed quite pitiful, honestly. At least, that's what the old England was like, but who knows what the new England will be like when he's intoxicated?_

_Then an idea strikes America. That's exactly what he wants England to do, isn't it? To open up. He wants England to be honest so that the two of them can work around this problem of theirs. Maybe he'll talk about whatever he might be hiding from the other nations, such as any memories that might be resurfacing. And if England is even a shred of like what he was like before whenever he was drunk, then there's hope._

_America isn't the sort of person who analyses situations like this. He doesn't tend to think things through this much, and instead runs straight into dilemmas without much prior thought. He's not stupid, per se, but he's more of a shoot first, ask questions later kind of individual. But right now, he's evaluating every possibility he can think of. He's taking this as seriously as possible._

_Is this wrong? Letting England get drunk so that he can get some answers? A hero wouldn't do something like that, especially considering how upset England will probably be when he sobers up and realises what has happened. But America remembers England's expression as he was leaving the hotel room. Something has upset him badly. He's stressed and angry and probably feels as if he_ needs _a drink. If America robs him of that then he's going to be even more enraged and he won't open up at all._

_America reaches a conclusion. Two pints, maximum. That should at least satisfy England a little, and won't be going too far. America will intervene after that. He enters the bar and stands near to door, watching as England orders his first beer. He wonders why the Brit isn't simply drinking at the hotel bar with Scotland and France, then remembers that England and France aren't very good at playing nice and England is famous for not exactly having a perfect relationship with his elder brothers. Maybe France and Scotland are the reason England looks so pissed off right now._

_The second beer comes soon enough, and the Brit downs it just as quickly as the one before. America steps forward, then hesitates a little. It's only now just occurring to him that England might not react well to seeing him and he might have another incident like the one earlier on his hands. But he has to do something._

_'Another one,' England mutters to the bartender._

_'Probably not such a good idea, man,' America advises, taking a seat beside him and shooting a grin at the other nation in the hope of establishing that this is nothing more than a friendly encounter. He's relieved to see that the glare England sends him is composed mostly of irritation and not blind panic, though there is still some fear lingering in the background. So even alcohol isn't dulling that paranoia._

_'What are you doing here?' England demands. It's almost as if he's completely forgotten their earlier encounter. Maybe he has. Maybe he really was seeing something else when he looked at America earlier._

_'Stopping you from getting wasted to the point where you can't walk. I'm_ not _carrying you back.'_

_'It doesn't have to be any of your concern if you just leave,' England says irritably. 'How'd you know where to find me?'_

_'I was in the neighbourhood,' America says casually. He doesn't hold any illusions about needing to lie. That's neither necessary nor preferable. He just hopes that England will pay him the same curtesy. 'Japan's not staying far away from your hotel and we were gaming. I saw France earlier too. He said he was getting a drink with Scotland. Shouldn't you be doing this with them?'_

_'Why on earth would I want to?'_

_It looks as if getting England to leave is going to be a bit difficult._

_'I spotted you leaving the hotel not long after,' America continues. 'It's only round the corner, anyway. You didn't do a very good job of getting away this time.'_

_'I wasn't trying to get away, I was trying to get_ drunk. _I'm still trying.'_

_'Yeah, I figured I should probably intervene after a couple of pints. Sorry, dude.'_

_'I'm not stopping-'_

_America interrupts him by grabbing his arm and is hauling him away from the bar. America can feel England tense up but keeps his hold anyway, knowing that he should get England away from this bar now. It's the right thing to do._

_'I'm so stupid,' England sobs rather abruptly once they're out on the street. His voice sounds rather broken._

_America is shocked by this sudden display of emotion, but he manages to get out a chuckle in the hopes of lightening the situation. It seems that England is still capable of being an emotional drunk after all, and America isn't entirely sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing right now. He might get answers but at what cost? England is clearly quite distraught._

' _Dude, you need to chill. You always used to get drunk. You haven't even had too much this time, don't worry,' America reassures him._

_England seems to be able to walk just fine, but America keeps a hold on him, just in case he does become a little unsteady. England might want to talk if he feels more comfortable, such as in the privacy of his hotel room, provided Scotland and France don't join them._

_When they reach the hotel, however, England starts to panic. 'No,_ no,' _he refuses, struggling his way out of America's hold. 'I'm not going back in there. I'm not seeing them.'_

_'Who? Scotland? France?' America must have been right before. Something the other two nations have done has upset England._

_'I'd rather sleep in the bloody park again,' the Brit says stubbornly._

_'Park? What park?'_

_England doesn't seem to have any plans on answering America. He merely glares at the hotel, a little wobbly on his feet, and repeats, 'I'm not going back in there.'_

_America tilts his head in confusion. It's not like he's going to force England to talk to France and Scotland or anything. He can still keep to avoiding them once he goes in if he wants to. But England's already agitated enough and America doesn't want to push it. 'Um. Okay. Well, sleeping outdoors isn't a great idea, Iggy. You can stay at my place tonight.'_

_England appears as if he wants to refuse this, but then thinks better of it. 'Fine,' he mutters. 'Thanks.'_

_America sighs in relief. Finally, England is cooperating._

* * *

_The alcohol is really taking effect now, America can tell. England's gaze is a little unfocused once they reach America's house and he sways unnervingly without something stable to hold onto. He seems pretty out of it too, and America doubts he'll remember much of it in the morning._

_America finds a spare shirt and some boxers that England can use for the night. Upon entering the house, however, the Brit seems focused on one thing in particular. He allows himself to sit down on America's sofa but he is on edge, rummaging rather wildly in his coat pockets, oblivious to the rest of the world._

_'Whatcha looking for?' America asks playfully as he lays out the night clothes on the spot next to England._

_'M-my knife,' England slurs, his voice rather high pitched._

_America falters. 'Oh. Right. Why, uh… why do you, um, need it?'_

_'Just need to know it's there,' England whispers. His hands are shaking._

_America bites his lip. That knife is super scary looking. It sliced through the entity, a creature that was strong enough to blast a holes in walls, in a matter of seconds. And the way England is always checking he has it on him is unnerving._

_'I'm sure be okay tonight without it,' America says, making his voice as cheerful as possible._

_England's eyes widen. 'No._ No. _I- I need it. It has to be here. I can't- I can't- I need-'_

_His hysterical voice breaks off as his hand finally fumbles around with the hilt of the blade. He lets out a shaky, relieved breath._

_America has seen England in all manner of psychological states in the past, but he's not sure he's ever witnessed him as this much of a nervous wreck before. The closest thing he can compare it to is the shell-shocked state England was in during the last few months of 1916._

_'There, see? It was there all along,' America reassures him, not happy to see the knife himself but glad that England is at least content. He wouldn't know the first thing about dealing with England having a panic attack and he's glad that it's been avoided. 'You don't have to go back to the hotel and get it,' he adds as a joke._

_England's eyes narrow. 'I'm not going back. I'm not seeing them.'_

_'Scotland and France?'_

_England nods. America notices that despite the averted crisis, England's hands are still shaking._

_'What happened?' America asks, wondering if England will give him an answer._

_It's as if England can't really hear him. He simply stares down at his knife and mutters, 'Bastards. Talking behind my back… things that shouldn't be said… didn't want people knowing…'_

_So he overheard Scotland and France talking behind his back? About 'things that shouldn't be said', things he clearly didn't want people finding out about. No wonder England is angry. In addition, he must still be quite upset about overhearing the other nations at the meeting place earlier._

_'Said he wanted to help… said he cared…' England continues quietly. He's seemingly forgotten America is there. 'Just… gave up… looking for me… said I was_ dead _…'_

_Oh. Oh no. England knows about that?_

_On that first day of the G8, once they'd all gone back to America's house, Scotland had made himself very clear. England hadn't been particularly happy about being in the room with everyone else, so he had eventually ventured out for a little break in America's back garden. Scotland clearly wasn't comfortable with England being left alone so he'd opted to join him outside. Before joining England outside, however, he'd decided to level with the other nations._

_'I haven't told him yet,' Scotland had said. 'He doesn't know that I'm the one who announced he was dead. I still haven't figured out how the hell I got it wrong. His connection to Wales and I was definitely cut off. I don't understand it.'_

_Germany had frowned. 'You shouldn't be keeping that from him.'_

_'I know,' Scotland's voice was full of remorse. 'I'm not sure how I'm supposed to explain it to him. He'll misinterpret it. He'll probably think I wanted him dead or something. I'll figure out a way to tell him.'_

_'The longer you wait, the angrier he'll be,' Japan had advised._

_Scotland sighed. 'I know. And I_ will _tell him. I'll explain everything. But until then, I would appreciate it if yeh could all keep quiet 'bout it in front of him. He shouldn't have to find out any other way.' He'd looked rather purposely at America while he spoke. Of course, he probably suspected that of all the nations, America would be the one most likely to tell England._

_America wonders now if this little episode with England right here is the result of Scotland finally getting round to telling England the truth. Or maybe England ended up finding out another way? America debates internally on whether he should try reasoning with England. But he is honestly the last person who should be defending Scotland, considering how at odds they were over England's disappearance._

_But should he try anyway? Not for Scotland, but for England. The Brit is clearly misinterpreting it, just like Scotland feared he would, and as a result he's worked himself into a bit of a state._

_England mumbles something else, his voice now so low that America can hardly hear it. He does catch out one word though-_ France- _and he wonders if maybe France had a hand in explaining the truth to England._

_'Come on, dude,' America says, taking a step towards England and wondering if he'll have to pull him up. 'You're wasted, man. You should go to bed.'_

_England blinks up at him, dazed, seemingly realising that he isn't alone. He lets out a 'mph' of submission and tries to stand up by himself. When he almost topples over backwards, America reaches out and holds him steady. England freezes yet again at the touch. America pretends not to notice._

_As they're heading up the stairs, England mutters, 'Sorry.'_

_America squints in the semi darkness. 'Huh?'_

_England's gaze is a million miles away. He's barely here and certainly isn't going to remember this in the morning. ''S'not your fault. I think. Don't und'stand it. But 's'not your fault.'_

_America swallows. Is England talking about this fear he has of America? He's about to ask when he realises it's too late anyway. England's eyes are dulling over. He's barely conscious now._

_America makes sure England stays awake long enough to change his clothes and get into bed, and then closes the door, wondering what the hell he's supposed to make of this._

* * *

It's not unheard of, a little early snow around these parts. It's almost December, after all. And the weather has been getting colder.

America sips his coffee slowly and stares out the window at white snowflakes drifting down. It's not heavy and it's not really settling on the ground. It will probably pass quite quickly.

His mind drifts to the day before yesterday, at the building they were temporarily using as a substitute meeting place. England had been there, seemingly unbeknownst to everyone else, listening to what they were saying to him. And when America had approached him…

England had been better, later on in the bar. Still on edge, still paranoid, still fearful, but not as completely terrified as he had been at the meeting. That time round, it felt like England was seeing him properly, as opposed to earlier on in the day when it was if England was seeing something else in America's place.

_Maybe it's not actually me he's scared of. Maybe he keeps seeing something else when he looks at me,_ America allows himself to wonder, though he doesn't want to get too hopeful. He's scared that he might be wrong.

'Don't let it worry you, America-san,' comes Japan's voice from behind him, and he turns away from the window to see his friend standing in the doorway. America is currently in the living room of his house, having just finished breakfast.

Japan stayed the night, partly as company and partly as a… necessary precaution. Not that anyone phrased it like that in front of America, but those were the words he heard Wales using yesterday when he thought America wasn't listening. As far as certain nations are concerned, it would be in everyone's best interests if someone kept an eye on America at all times. Not that anyone is definitely pointing fingers or anything- as Germany rather hastily pointed out yesterday- but some measures had to be taken in the very least.

Not only is Scotland blaming America for the fall, but it must look highly suspicious how England came round to his house and had a nervous breakdown upon coming face to face with him. The fear in England's eyes was just the same as it was the other day in the meeting room. The same wild look that was there on the day of the second meeting, when England spent the whole morning glaring at America.

It's like he's looking straight _through_ him.

America had phoned the other nations as soon as England had collapsed, of course. This was before he even knew what had happened to Scotland, let alone that he was being held accountable for it. He'd laid England to rest on his bed and had ventured downstairs to find a rather frightened looking Sealand, which was understandable as England had been screaming at him to run.

America didn't know how to explain to the micronation what had happened, partly because the child was rather scared enough already and partly because he himself had no damn idea what had just taken place. So he had told Sealand that England wasn't feeling very well and reassured him that Wales and the others would be arriving soon enough.

Wales wasn't blunt (not like how Scotland had apparently been in the hospital). He didn't accuse America openly, though there was certainly suspicion on his face. He may not have had any intention of accepting what Scotland had been telling everyone, but with England lying unconscious in America's house as the result of a massive panic attack, he had clearly begun to suspect that America might have done something. Maybe not something as drastic as Scotland's attempted murder, but definitely something.

As always, Russia was the one to speak the uncomfortable truth. 'Nobody wants to believe America did any of it, but everyone is a little anxious from these suggestable events nonetheless,' he had said pleasantly as if this wasn't a problem at all. 'America is probably not guilty at all, but maybe someone should stay here with him and keep an eye on him.' The chilling smile sent America's way implied that Russia was more than comfortable assuming this position.

Japan volunteered pretty quickly in Russia's place. 'I can stay with America-san. I'm sure we all know he didn't do it,' he had said, and America had been relieved to see each remaining member of the G8 nodding in agreement. Even Wales offered no argument at all.

'These recent events, however, have thrown this into question…' Japan continued and America had felt coldness wash over him. His stomach lurched uncomfortably.

'… which leads me to the conclusion that this is a very deliberate move on someone else's part,' Japan had finished. 'I believe that someone has worked hard to try and frame America-san.'

Russia nodded thoughtfully, looking rather happy at the thought of a new puzzle to solve. 'That sounds probable. And very interesting. I wonder if whoever are responsible are one and the same with those who took England in the first place.'

There had been more words after that, but America had unintentionally tuned them out by that point. The relief was enough to deafen him to any further debate.

Japan and Italy had spent the rest of the day watching over Sealand, while France and Canada had taken England back to his hotel room. Germany, Wales and Russia had spent a little more time discussing matters at America's house and America pretended to listen, though he was more concerned with who might be trying to frame him, and how and why they'd managed to screw England up _that badly_ in the head.

By the evening, the other three nations had left and Japan had returned, choosing to stay with America anyway, though his motives were purely in an act of concern for his friend and not because he felt the need to keep an eye on him.

America hasn't really slept that well and this new day is only going to bring more problems. England will regain consciousness at some point and as blameless as everyone might genuinely believe America to be, they'll probably decide it's best if America and England avoid contact for now.

And what's Scotland going to be saying about all of this? Wales must have told him about England's episode. He'll probably know that it happened in America's house. All the more reason to suspect America.

'I'm not worried at all,' America laughs, shoving all these thoughts to the back of his mind. 'I mean, come on, Scotland's argument is weak! They can't honestly accuse the hero of being the villain!'

Japan gives an exasperated smile and takes a seat in one of the armchairs, lifting a cup of herbal tea to his lips.

The rare moment of silence is broken by the phone ringing. America picks it up instantly.

'Hello?'

_'Is he with you?'_ It's Wales, and he sounds on edge.

'Who?'

_'Is England there with you?'_ Wales demands.

'What? No. He's with Canada and France, isn't he?' America frowns. Has England run off _again?_

_'He was gone by the time they woke up,'_ Wales says testily. _'Sealand and I are staying at this hotel too, in a different room, but he didn't come to us. Regardless of my brother's… current attitude towards you, he still ran to you yesterday. I want to know if he's chosen to do the same thing again.'_

'Why would he do that?'

_'I don't know. No matter what state he's in mentally, he was very adamant on proving your innocence yesterday. He may be scared, but he still… still cares about you quite a lot, clearly. So please- if he's there, please just… just tell me. I'm worried.'_

'He's not here,' America replies. Across the room, Japan is tilting his head in confusion.

Wales takes a deep breath and America prepares himself for what is about to come. Over the last five years, he has gathered that Wales is certainly the most laid back of the British Isles, but with everything that's happened to his family, even Wales must have his limits.

_'If you're lying to me…'_ Wales begins.

America feels himself getting angry. As if being accused of attempted murder and having his long lost friend scared to death of him isn't enough already. So much for Mr Nice Guy; America has limits too.

'Listen,' he growls, and from the chair opposite him Japan's eyes widen in shock. America hardly ever shows this side of himself. 'He is not here. If he was here, I would _tell_ you. What, you think I've captured him or something? You think I really am responsible for all of this?'

_'No,'_ Wales says calmly, his voice a little gentler. He seems quite taken aback with America's response. _'I thought maybe he had shown up there and asked you not to reveal his location. I thought maybe you were lying for him.'_

'He's not here,' America repeats. 'You can ask Japan if you want.'

'How long has England-san been missing?' Japan asks, concerned.

'He was gone when Canada and France woke up, apparently,' America replies.

_'He could have left at any point in the night,'_ Wales continues. _'He hasn't got his knife, though. Germany's holding onto it for now. I mean, on the one hand he has nothing to protect himself with if another one of those creatures shows up… but on the other hand… at least he won't end up accidentally hurting anyone else… or himself.'_

* * *

_Psychological trauma. Most likely triggered by severe physical abuse. Highly probable that extreme mental torture played a part as well._

Every point that makes sense in each article Wales reads online about victims of abuse, he has taken note of. Speaking to psychiatrists about England's problem isn't really going to work now, considering so much of it is wrapped up in the supernatural, which of course isn't a logically accepted reason for all of this.

Aside from America, Wales naturally phones the rest of the G8 too. Most of them are just waking up as the final meeting for the G8 conference takes place today. He phones the hospital too, asking whether Scotland's had any visitors today, but they tell him that visiting hours don't start yet. So Wales can definitely rule out the hospital as a place England might have headed. He doesn't ask to speak to Scotland because he decides that a proper search for England should be conducted before the eldest brother is informed, as Scotland shouldn't be put under stress in his current predicament.

Wales sighs deeply and tries to remind himself of the other nations telling him that no matter how often England goes off without a trace, he always comes back eventually.

But it took him five years the first time round, and Wales isn't eager to repeat _that_ again.

_I should have been with him._ He could have chosen to do so. When he'd picked up Sealand from Italy and Japan, who were looking after the micronation for the afternoon while Wales smoothed everything out with several other nations, the two had arrived at the hotel where they'd be staying. The same hotel England and Scotland have been staying at.

He'd visited England's room to check on him and had been informed that the other Brit had actually woken up briefly and had been quite sick. But France and Canada had reassured Wales that they'd be fine staying here with England overnight.

_I should have asked France and Canada to stay with Sealand. I should have watched over England myself._

But he hadn't. And now it's too late anyway.

'Why did you run?' Wales mutters in distress as he finishes the last phone call. 'You were safe with them. Why can't you see that? Where could you be?'

His phone buzzes with a new message: _**Just arrived. Got your text. Any idea where he might be?**_

He stares down at a notepad he has in front of him. In a haste, scribbling down any information the other nations have been able to come up with, Wales has a list of all the locations England might be, to his knowledge. Aside from the two separate buildings that have been used for the G8 conference, the hotel, the hospital, America's house and any of the other hotels the other nations are staying at, Wales has nothing.

_**No clue,**_ he replies. _**And you didn't have to come.**_

_**Too late now anyway. Besides, didn't wanna miss all this excitement. And you need all the help you can get.** _

'You missed the park,' Sealand says quietly, nibbling on a piece of toast as he peers over Wales's shoulder at the notepad.

The older nation swivels round on his seat and stares at him. 'What?'

Sealand shrugs, trying to look rather casual, though he has been unusually silent since France and Canada came bursting in with the news that England had disappeared. 'The park. He likes it there. We were headed there yesterday after we left America's house, before you called about Scotland.'

Wales blinks. 'Park? Which park?'

'Not sure what it's called,' Sealand replies, though a little more energy seems to be returning to him. 'But I know where it is. He said he slept there one night.'

Wales is silent for a few moments, watching his little brother in shock. 'Sea, that's… that's brilliant. Thank you.'

Sealand grins. 'Are we gonna go find the jerk now?'

Wales smiles. 'Yes. Hopefully. I'll just tell the others.'

He picks up his phone and quickly sends out a message.

_**We think we know where England might be.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to show the scene between France and America from America's perspective for one key reason. Unbeknownst to the two, England is watching from the balcony, misinterpreting it as France working with 'the demon'. Of course, England now knows that the demon he's been seeing all along is actually America. England has often tried to remind himself the demon isn't really a demon but is in fact someone who happens to have demonic red eyes, their appearance mostly clouded from vision. But now he remembers more about his torture, he is aware that this 'demon' is actually the other America.
> 
> One theory you guys came up with was that 2P America was somehow possessing America in this world. I like that theory (and did originally consider it) but I decided in the end for this to actually be England simply hallucinating. It's quite easy for him to look at America and see the red eyes and feel all that fear because 2P America actually adopted his 1P counterpart's appearance whilst torturing England, save for the eyes. America doesn't simply remind England of 2P America. It's so much worse than that. England was tricked into a false sense of security and then tortured by someone he genuinely for a substantial amount of time thought to be America himself.
> 
> I chose to do this to establish how badly the 2Ps messed England up in the head. England tends to be quite conscious of his psychological state and has a consistent lack of faith in his own mental stability. He's scared he's gone insane, and with the knowledge that he really has been hallucinating all along, this pretty much confirms it for him.
> 
> Well, that was depressing. XD
> 
> To everyone who actually managed to get through all that, congratulations, thanks for reading, and remember to review!
> 
> Toodles!


	15. Everything Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks like I have managed to instigate some kind of schedule. This chapter and the last have both been posted on the first of the month, although I have tended to finish them a few days earlier and then wait a little so that I can uphold this schedule. Look at that, I'm finally organised! Although as for the first of November... I don't think I'll be posting it then. The fifth of November sounds better to me ;)
> 
> (Please don't hold me to that. I'm literally waiting for the moment I relapse into a random, disorganised updating schedule. Knowing me, it's coming. Soon. I just hope not.)
> 
> I apologise for the amount of ellipses and hyphens in this chapter. England is stuttering a lot.
> 
> In several of my stories I've used theme songs and included the lyrics in certain chapters. Ash Song is no exception, it would seem. The song is So Close by Ólafur Arnalds and Arnór Dan from the ITV crime drama Broadchurch.
> 
> Allons-y!

_Through dark and light I fight to be_  
_So close  
_ _Shadows and lies mask you from me_

' _Go back,'_ the fae whisper. _'Go back to them. They want to help you.'_

'They c… can't help me,' England whispers. 'They w… won't.'

He stands at the edge of the half frozen pond. The fresh sheet of ice is extremely thin and only really covers little areas of the water. England has spent the last few hours sitting at the edge of the water, deep in thought. Only now is he deciding to take whatever action he can. The park will probably open up pretty soon so he won't have much longer in this solitude.

'Why am I s-still alive?' he mumbles to himself.

 _'Why shouldn't you be?'_ the fae ask.

'Because I w… was dead to this world. I was c-cut off,' England replies, his teeth chattering. The weather really has become so unexpectedly cold over the course of the night. 'I w… was as g-good as dead. Here, anyway. Here, n… not there.'

He remembers Other England saying this to him when he first arrived in their world, washed up on the riverbank and falling apart inside from the pain in his chest and the ash burning in his eyes. _'This is what it was. This is what it will always be. Here, not there.'_

That's what it's like in the other London. That's what it's been like since the Gunpowder Plot itself, England guesses. They burn the city each year to commemorate the anniversary. And he thinks he knows why that might be.

 _'This other world you were in,'_ the fae murmur. _'It left its mark on you. Not just the ones in your head and on your body. It left a mark on your soul. We can see it. We never knew where you had gone, or even if you were still alive, but once you had returned it was clear that you hadn't been in this world. The Otherworld has branded you. Your soul is... tethered to it. It still is, even now.'_

England taps the ice with his index finger. The sheet is so thin that it cracks with a single, gentle touch.

'Is that w… why I keep seeing them?' he asks, leaning down and reaching out with his hand to run his fingers over the thin sheet of ice. 'Why I k-keep hallucinating the n… nations in the Otherworld? B-Because a part of m-me is... still connected t… to their dimension? Or is it just because I'm c… crazy?'

England pauses, his fingers just centimetres away from the water, now trickling over the cracked ice. 'A-and the countries f… from this world? Was I ever r… right to d-distrust them? Do they unsettle m… me simply because th-they remind me of their... c-counterparts?'

 _'Go back to your fellow nations, here in this world,'_ the fae advise him. _'Their concern for you is genuine. You needn't distrust them.'_

'N… not even...'

 _'None of them have been touched by the darkness of this other world that took you,'_ the fae say firmly.

 _Just me,_ England thinks. 'So why d-do I keep seeing-?'

 _'Your eyes see what your broken, pained mind tells them to see,'_ the fae say quietly. _'Your soul, however chained, however damaged, however hurt, remembers. The good and the bad. You are torn between both worlds. Perhaps one more so than the other.'_

 _So close  
_ _Bathe my skin, the darkness within_

England dips his hand into the water absent-mindedly. The cold bites at his skin and sends shivers up his arms but he doesn't seem to notice. The fae hover around anxiously, waiting for England to reach a conclusion.

'W-why?' he says finally. 'I'm n… not one of them. They already h-have an England in th-their w… world. What g-good am I to them?'

Silence rings across the icy pond. Although the snow was an unpleasant shock for England, he is reassured by the fact that this is genuinely snow and not ash. In addition, the sudden cold weather is probably going to keep the majority of people away from the park. He has no idea what time it is but it must be getting close to opening times for the park.

He swirls his hand around in the water a little, watching the little shards of ice break apart. Will France and Canada have woken up and noticed his absence by now? He feels a twinge of guilt settle in his stomach. Perhaps he should have left a note like he did with Scotland the other morning. He can't text or call anyone; he left his phone in the hotel room. Less of a chance of being disturbed that way.

England pulls his hand out of the water and stares down and his pale, freezing skin. 'I d… don't think it w-would be safe if I go back. B-back to the countries in th… this world, I mean. I think I sh… should stay away f-from them.'

The fae aren't pleased. _'They are not your enemies. You know that. Your soul knows that. They are not a danger to you.'_

'N… no, they're not,' England agrees quietly. 'B-but… I am to th-them.'

' _How so?'_ the fae ask carefully.

'W-well, I'm c…crazy, aren't I? I w-want my knife with m… me at all times and I'm seeing everything d-different to how it r… really is…' He leans back and pulls his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his legs in a tight little ball. Even like this, he doesn't feel comfortable. If anything, it feels as if he is trapped by his own arms. He's too still in this position. He begins to rock back and forth rhythmically, not taking his eyes off the frozen pond.

'Th… that demon. It w-was never a d… demon. Up until y-yesterday, I c-could only ever m… make out its eyes. The r-rest of it was just sh-shrouded in darkness, b-because I c-couldn't remember who it w-was or w… what they looked like. B-but n-now the darkness is g-gone because I k… know who it was…'

 _'England…'_ the fae begin gently.

'It w-was him,' England whispers. 'Every t-time I saw it. I w… was really l-looking at him. At A… Am…'

 _'England, it's alright. It can get better. You mustn't hide or run. You won't heal this way,'_ the fae say.

'Sometimes wh... when I l-look at him I s... see th-the... the other him. B-because the other him w-was m... made to look exactly l... like him.'

Whoever cast the enchantment on Other America to make him look exactly like his doppelgänger captured his likeness completely, save for his eyes. But there was that brief moment where his image had shimmered and England had caught a glimpse of what Other America really looks like: brown hair, tanned skin and that wicked smile.

England bites his lip and closes his eyes. 'Wh... what if I'd d-done something? Every t-time I hallucinat-ted the other v... version of him and not Am... Am-merica himself...' He falters upon saying America's name. A violent shudder runs through his body and he feels like punching the ice beside him. 'W-whenever I saw... _him_ instead, I w... would p-panic and g... get away because I was so s... scared. But w-what if I'd d-done something w... worse? What if I'd... u-used my kn-knife to p... protect myself, w-without realising it was r... really Am... Ame... rica...?'

He can feel the warm glow of the fae beside him. They have come closer in an effort to comfort him. The fae have so far been the only beings left who can make England feel at ease like they did the other night when he sought their company. But magic hasn't been kind to him. That entity was the product of a dark ritual. Other America's false appearance was the result of an enchantment. And of course there was also the familiar traces of magical residue on the mirror shards. Even magic has turned its back on England. He no longer feels reassured by the faes' ethereal presence. The energy radiating from them makes him think only of how magic was used to hurt him.

 _So close  
_ _The war of our lives no one can win_

'Th-that's how I'm a d... danger to them,' he says, hoping the fae won't notice his discomfort. 'I c-can't be trusted... I genuinely thought Am-merica and F... France were both trying to hurt m-me. I g-got s-so paranoid th-that I actually w-wondered if C-Canada m-might want to hurt me t-too. I was w... willing to believe th... that almost anyone c-could be my enemy. And I'm still n-not sure n-now.'

He lifts a shaking hand to his forehead. 'B-because in m... my head it's all j-jumbled up and seems ridiculous b-but at the same t... time it makes sense. And I don't know w-why. Or m... maybe I do, and I j-just wish it didn't.' He opens his eyes to reveal that they are shimmering with tears. 'W-what if I attack someone? What if I see s-something the wrong way and I p... panic and try t-to protect myself a... and I end up hurting s... someone?'

 _'You won't...'_ the fae murmur faintly, but England isn't listening.

'So... you see w-why I can't g... go back to them...'

_'You can. They will help you get better, and then you won't have to worry about harming anyone.'_

'B-but, it's n... not just that,' England whispers.

 _'You're still scared of them,'_ the fae finish for him. _'A part of you is still convinced that_ they _might hurt_ you.'

'I'll s... stay away. It's b-better this w... way.'

_'And where will you go? Back to the other world?'_

'N-no!' England is horrified. 'I... I... they... w-what they d... did to me...'

 _'Yet you feel drawn to that world, and to them,'_ the fae remark solemly.

'Th-they're drawn to m... m... me!' England replies. His words are shakier and taking even longer to come out. It must be the damn cold. He shouldn't stay by the pond much longer. 'Th-th-they're following m... me around in r... reflections and they sent th-that entity after m-me.'

Why the hell should hebe drawn to that world? After what they... what they did to him, he shouldn't feel connected to it at all. But he's only got a month's worth of memories back so far. What the hell happened during the remaining four years and eleven months? It can't have been better. It must have all been like a terrible nightmare, trapped a world he was didn't belong in.

But he remembers how he had sat in the G8 on the second day with his fellow nations and he had been convinced that he wasn't one of them anymore, to which a voice in his head which he has since identified as Other America's had whispered, _'You're one of_ us.'

And then he thinks about he felt London in the other world burning, even though it wasn't really his London. About how he actually physically _felt_ it, as if it was connected to him and he was a _part_ of that world. He thinks about how the fae told him that that his soul is tethered to the other dimension. About how he is torn between both worlds, perhaps one more so than the other.

'You are dead, but not really,' Other England had said.

 _Dead to my own world. Cut off from it. Connected to a new world. One of_ them.

'N-no...' England moans. He feels sick.

 _'England?'_ the fae ask worriedly.

England buries his head in the folds of the fabric on his sleeves, squeezing his eyes shut.

 _'England?'_ the fae try again, sounding very uncertain.

'H… h… how do I b-break it?' comes England's muffled voice. 'Th… the connection b-between the other w… world a… and I?'

 _'We… we don't know,'_ the fae admit.

'It sh-should be over,' England continues, his voice breaking a little. 'I'm b-back n… now. It should b-be over. W… why isn't it over? D… do they w-want me to go b… back to them? W-why? Why me? W… why did they take m-me in the f… first place? W-why are they s… still coming after m-me? W-what do they w… want f-from me?'

But he still hasn't found any answers. Not in this world. He will do, eventually, he's sure, but that will mean enduring the return of more memories. Perhaps it will finally make sense when all of the five years have come back to him. But he doesn't want that.

He lifts his head up, a strange neutral expression crossing his face. '… I think I know what I have to do,' he says calmly. The fae stare at him. It's the first sentence he has managed to get out without stuttering.

 _'What you have to do?'_ the fae echo cautiously.

England nods. 'I… I'm sick of b-being scared. And weak. I have to d… do this.'

He unwraps his arms from around his knees and pushes himself to his feet, leaning on a nearby tree for help.

'Th… this has to end. One w… way or another,' he says.

 _'England?'_ the fae ask once more.

'I have t-to… to know why,' England continues. 'And I don't w… want it to be through m-my memories. They're t… too much. Th-that's how I'm so w-weak,' he adds, laughing bitterly. 'I'm t-too scared to accept anym… more memories. I think I c-can really believe it n-now. M… my brothers suspected m-my amnesia was self-ind… duced. Of course I m… made myself forget. Of c-course I w… would have wanted t-to forget. I'm g… going to do it again, if I c… can.'

 _'What?'_ the fae say in shock.

'N-no more,' England says quietly. 'No m… more. I can't b-bear it.'

 _A missing piece I yearn to find_  
_So close  
_ _Please clear the anguish from my mind_

He takes a step closer to the pond. 'I'm g... going to b-break the connection b... between their w... world and th-this one. B-between them and I. I h... have to seal it somehow. I'll n-need your help th... though. I'm having a l-little trouble g-getting my w... words out right n-now, so s... speaking the incantations c... clearly is g-going to be a b-bit of a p... problem. This d-damn cold,' he adds, laughing bitterly. 'Of c-course it had t... to start snowing...'

He lifts up his right hand and holds it over the frozen waters. 'I n-need to at l... least figure out w-why they want m... me. There has t-to be a r... reason why th-they took me, and w-why they're s... still not done with m-me. If they n-need something... if they're p... planning something... it l-looks as if I'm the only o... one who's g-got a chance of f... figuring this out.'

He glances up at the fae hovering above him. 'I'll f... find out w-what I can, and th-then I'm g... going to d-do what I c... can to separate the t-two worlds f... for good and m-make sure n... no more memories c-come back.'

 _'If you intend erase your memories of their world, won't you forget whatever it is you wish to learn about them?'_ the fae interject.

'N-not if I'm c... careful. The only m-memories I w-want to remove are of my t... time spent in th-their world. Anything th... that happened since I c-came back... anything that happened in _th-this_ world, should s-stay intact. Hopefully. So if I l-learn from them here and n-now, it should b... be okay. All I w-want to forget is w... what they d-did to me...'

 _'England, we advise you strongly against this,'_ the fae say hastily. 'Tampering with your memory, especially in your current state, could have disastrous effects. And how do you plan on obtaining information from their world?'

England has gone very pale. His lips are trembling. 'I'm g-going to t... talk to them, of c-course.'

This prompts an immediate outburst from the fae. They instantly swarm around England in mass panic. _'You mustn't!'_ their little voices call out in distress. _'To do that, you'd have to make an opening between the two worlds!'_

'J-just a little o... one,' England murmurs. 'Just t-to talk through the r... reflection. Th-that's all.'

_'They could take advantage of the opening! They might pull you into their world again! Or find their own way into this one!'_

'It's alright. I'll b... be careful. B-besides, I have y... you all to help me, d-don't I?' England gives a weak smile. 'And a... after I've learnt f-from them w... what I can, I'll t-try to seal off b-both worlds from each other f... forever. O-once the connection is b... broken I'll w-wipe clean whatever brand they've m... made on my soul and r-remove my memories of w-what they did to m... me.'

_'England, this could go very, very wrong-'_

'And if it d-does, it does,' England remarks, a rather hollow edge to his voice. He thinks back to the night before, when Canada and France were coaxing him back to sleep. In the end, he just gave in. He succumbed to sleep as easily as he accepted his seemingly inevitable death in that cell in the other world. Nothing about sleep or death, or sleep _and_ death, frightened him on both occasions. He was too tired. Too apathetic by that point. And so he re-evaluates this these two instances and concludes why, at the end of the day, the thought of his own life ending doesn't bother him.

If he fails to get the damage out of his head, then the pain won't go away. And England is too tired to face it anymore.

 _So close  
_ _But when the truth of you comes near_

The pond begins to brighten up with a gradually increasing glow. England staggers a little as he projects his magic down on the water. What's left of the thin, dwindling ice begins to crack and break apart.

'If I d-die,' he says calmly. 'I die. Nothing more t... to it. A p-part of me wishes I c... could care, but I c-can't. And that's j-just how it is n... now. Either I f-find a way t-to remove the p... pain or I lose my l-life in the process. Either way, it won't hurt anymore. It won't be t-too difficult for the o... other countries to accept that I'm d-dead. I m... mean, look at all the p-practice they've had...' _America never did._ '… and th-they'll probably h... have a body this t-time as proof.'

 _'England, no,'_ the fae plead with him. _'We will not assist you in ending your own life.'_

'I might n-not die,' England replies. 'L-like I said, it could g... go either way.'

 _'What if the gateway opens up too far and they manage to get into this world? What if you get pulled back into theirs?'_ The fae sound terrified, clearly having realised that there will be no persuading England otherwise.

'You c... close it off,' England says. 'The m-moment I'm incapacit-tated, the moment anything g... goes wrong, seal it. Don't let th-them in. D-don't let them t... touch this world. Not even for a s-single second.' He takes a deep breath. 'And if I g-get pulled in then... well, as screwed up a-as it is, as m... much as I hate everything ab... bout that world... it's still c-calling to me, isn't it? L... like you said- it made m-me a part of it. I'm d... drawn to it, as it's d-drawn to m... me. M-maybe they'll kill me this t... time. And if I r... really am g-gone then you have t... to tell my brothers whatever y-you learn from this. If the other w... world poses a threat t-to this one in any w... way then you t-tell them. T-tell Sealand, he'll l... listen.' Though whether the elder British Isles will listen to _him_ is a different matter. 'Tell W-Wales, tell Ireland, t... tell Scotland. Tell anyone you c... can. They have t-to know.'

 _So close  
_ _I wish my life I'd never come near here_

_'Please, England-'_

'My p-people will be okay if I d... die. I was c-cut off from them f-for five years, so I w... was as good as d-dead, and they carried on all the s-same. My b-brothers will k... keep them alive. Th-they'll be alright...'

_'We won't do it, England. We won't help you do this.'_

'I'm sure t-to fail if I do this a... alone. P-please. I just want it to b... be over. I have t-to end this.'

'Not like this.'

England freezes. That voice didn't come from the fae. It came from behind him. He doesn't turn, however, too conscious of all the magic building up inside him and dancing at the edge of his fingertips. If he loses concentration, he might expel it incorrectly. It might all release at once, and that could have destructive consequences.

'England? Are yeh listenin' to me? Come away from the water, alright? Just stop this.'

England tilts his head slightly to the side, taking his eyes off the water for a couple of seconds to catch sight of the figure in his peripheral vision. He knows the voice, of course, but it's incredibly unlikely to for it to actually be who he thinks it is. The figure's appearance at the edge of his sight confirms it for him, however.

'Ire... land?'

'That's right,' Ireland confirms. 'It's me. Lucky for yeh, because if it had been almost anyone else they'd have thought yeh were talking to yerself.'

England's eyes drift back to the pond. He mustn't break his concentration again. He can feel the energy building up inside him, threatening to break free.

'Listen to the fae, England,' Ireland continues. 'Listen to me. Yeh don't have to do this. We'll figure it all out and help yeh another way, alright? This is too dangerous.'

'N-no...' England wants to close his eyes and enable himself to get a better grip on reality, but he has to keep his gaze fixed on the water. 'You're n-not real...'

He imagines Ireland is probably frowning behind him. 'Why do yeh say that?'

'W-why else would you b... be here? You've just sh-shown up all of a sudden, th-thousands of miles away f... from where you should b-be right now. Besides, I'm s... seeing lots of things th-that aren't really there. M... my head is all... damaged and b-broken.'

He hears a crunch on the frozen earth as Ireland takes a step towards him. 'I'm here 'cause Wales called yesterday to tell me that Scotland had managed to fall out of a ruddy building. I was just getting ready to head to the airport when I got another call from Wales telling me that yeh'd had some kind of breakdown at the yank's house. And when I arrived in Washington this morning I got a text saying that yeh'd gone missing. Apparently Sealand suggested yeh might be in the park, so I said I'd check it out on the way to the hotel.'

_So close_

He's so close, too close to England...

'S-stay back,' England warns him.

Ireland sighs. 'Damn. I was angry yeh'd run off and left Wales like that. I was planning on yelling 'n everything. But look at yeh. Jesus, England. Yeh're really not okay, are yeh?'

'W-what an astute observation,' England mutters sourly. 'What g... gave it away?'

He can make out Ireland's reflection in the water beside his own, standing just behind him. 'That's more like it. That's more like the England I know. Yeh're not broken. Yeh haven't fallen to pieces, not like yeh think yeh have. The old yeh is still in there. Yeh can get through this.'

'Don't t... talk about things you d-don't know a damn th-thing about,' England snaps. 'You have n... no sodding idea what you're t-talking about...'

'Are yeh cold, England?' Ireland asks. He actually sounds concerned.

England uses his free hand to try shoving Ireland away from him. 'J-just stop it. Stop trying to d... distract me. And don't play the c... caring game. That's n-not what you do.'

'Don't talk about things yeh don't know a damn thing about,' Ireland echoes his younger brother. 'What would yeh know, England? Tell me, is there anyone in yer life that yeh've allowed yerself to actually believe cares for yeh? Are yeh really of the opinion that if yeh die right here and now everyone will just bloody move on like yeh don't even matter?'

'Y-you all did l... last time,' England retorts, feeling his eyes burning- though whether it's because of the magic building up inside him or if it is actually tears, he's not sure.

'Do yeh actually know what happened?' Ireland asks carefully. 'Did Scotland or Wales tell yeh, or did yeh not actually let them get a word in when yeh found out about the called off search?'

England says nothing. Even if he did want to stop the magic, it's too late now; the energy inside him is reaching a tipping point. The pond is still glowing, ready upon his command to open up a gateway. He'll have to expel the energy, or it's going to explode on its own.

'Just because yeh were pronounced dead,' Ireland finishes, 'that doesn't mean that they gave up on yeh. It doesn't mean anyone did. Yeh ask Wales about it when we get back. Yeh talk to him 'n Scotland so yeh hear it straight from them.'

'I'm n-not going back,' England whispers.

'England... come on. I heard what yeh were sayin' to the fae, alright? 'Bout yeh being in some other world. Which I have to admit, sounds ridiculous at first. But when I think it through, it makes a disturbing amount of sense. And there ain't no way I'm letting yeh perform whatever ritual yeh have in mind when there's a chance yeh could bloody die from it. Or get trapped in this other world yeh were in.'

'I c-can't stop n... now.' England's right hand is shaking. The magic is burning his fingers.

In the reflection, he can make out Ireland's hand reaching out for him. He flinches but Ireland doesn't stop. The older nation's hand moves on past him and comes to rest on his own outstretched arm, the one brimming with energy. Ireland's other hand comes to rest on England's left shoulder. The touch sends shivers coursing through England.

'I'll help yeh stop it, then,' Ireland says. His voice is more gentle than England has ever heard it before.

Ireland's magic is rather small and rusty, being that it is much weaker than England's and it hasn't been used in a while. England can still feel his brother's magic flowing into him, however, slowly and steadily helping him diffuse the energy inside him, like a fire being doused with water. England grits his teeth and holds his breath. All this energy inside him, although slowly dying, is still dangerous. It feels explosive, and it's taking every bit of effort to keep it contained. Without this little bit of help from Ireland, he surely wouldn't be able to manage this. Around the pond, the fae are also weighing in where they can.

 _Why am I doing this?_ he thinks numbly. _I built up all this energy for a reason. I'm supposed to be opening the gateway. I can't just let it all go now. I've come this far..._

But it's almost over now. It's too late.

 _Through dark and light I fight to be_  
_So close  
_ _Shadows and lies mask you from me_

Despair crashes into him, quickly replacing the void that the magic eventually leaves in its wake. Despair and exhaustion. England is completely drained, physically and mentally, The energy may be gone, but the burning has not left, residing in his pained chest and the tears in his eyes. He stumbles a little then sinks to the ground. Ireland half-catches, slowly lowering his little brother down to his knees, keeping his grip on England.

England lets out a sob. 'I c-could've ended it h... here. It c-c-could all b-be over. If y... you'd j-j-just let m-me-'

'Not a chance,' Ireland says gruffly. 'I can't let yeh die; Wales would kill me. Plus, once was enough for me, believe it or not.'

England twists his head slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of his brother's expression. 'I d-don't know w... what I'm s-supposed t-t-to do,' he chokes. 'I d-d-don't know how I'm s... supposed to c-cope. The... the things th-they d-d-did to m... me... the things they p-probably did, the things I d... don't even r-remember yet...'

'Yeh don't know what to do,' Ireland says quietly. 'And neither do I. The others, all as individuals, probably won't have a ruddy clue, either. But together we might be able to figure it out. That's what help's supposed to be, isn't it? No use in doing it alone, England. So far that hasn't worked out for yeh. I know it's hard, but try and put a little trust in us, okay?'

Ireland lifts one hand and presses it against the back of England's head and wraps the other arm around England's waist, pulling him into an embrace. England is so shocked (because this might be the second or third time in his entire life that this has happened) and so upset that all of a sudden being in someone's arms doesn't feel so terrible. The arms holding him in place aren't prison bars. They're not constricting. They're not harmful.

They're safe.

England rests his head against his brother's chest and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you call that a nice ending? Nicer than some of the others, I would imagine XD
> 
> It was funny because I had a review a few days ago begging me to update and I was all, 'Buddy, that is literally what I am doing right now. I have just taken a tiny break from writing the next chapter to read a review asking for said chapter.' XD
> 
> So, I think it's about high time some form of recovery is in store for England. Sorry if they seem OOC or anything. England's completely broken down so I guess I can kind of justify him being a nervous wreck. And sympathetic Ireland? We don't exactly have much canonical knowledge of Ireland to go by so I guess this means I can kind shape his character how I want to some extent.
> 
> The G8 plus Wales and Sealand should be in the next chapter so you won't be missing them for too long.
> 
> I shall hopefully see you all on the 5th of November.
> 
> Remember to review, and toodles!


	16. Bridges Crossed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, an update on the one year anniversary of the story's publication. Happy 5th of November to those who celebrate! And, I guess happy birthday to Ash Song!
> 
> Ah, one year old. They grow up so fast. XD
> 
> So, what's happened while I've been gone? One would argue I have now legally become an adult (plz no), the hellatus for many shows is over and, most importantly, Halloween. How I would have loved to have updated on Halloween. But I never would have been able to finish up another chapter in time for today if I had.
> 
> Unlike this time last year, I am in my home country, right here in the UK itself, but I won't be going to a bonfire tonight. Might watch V For Vendetta. Or Sherlock S03 E01. Anything that I love that is even a little related to the date. XD
> 
> Anywho. Sealand's time to shine.
> 
> I've shown flashbacks from England, America and Scotland's points of view so far. It's high time Sealand takes the spotlight. (Tbh I'm probably gonna show several characters' POVs at some point- definitely thinking along the lines of France and Canada...) Sealand and England get this chapter. I'm focusing on their relationship here.
> 
> This chapter is a little longer than the others. It's a special update after all.
> 
> (Apologies for the hyphens and ellipses again. Update: England's still stuttering.)
> 
> So, uh... allons-y!

_The pitter-patter of light hail against Sealand's window is what wakes him, not just the excitement._

_Sometimes you can wake up and feel bright and alert already, ready to leap straight out of bed instead of lying there, half asleep and unwilling to get up. This is one of those occasions. Filled with childish exhilaration, Sealand throws the covers off and glances eagerly at his bedroom window._

_Well, it's sort of his bedroom. A while ago it was simply the spare room, but since Sealand spends so much time here, it has basically become his. It's filled with his toys from when he was a little bit smaller and even a big poster of a Dalek. Not that Sealand would ever dream of letting jerk England find out that he likes_ Doctor Who _._

_The clock on the bedside table says that it's about half six in the morning, which Sealand figures won't be declared by Finland as 'too early'. Anything before six is 'too early'. He should be alright to go down now and unwrap the presents._

_The hail is the only sound to be heard. The house is completely still. Sweden and Finland must still be asleep. Denmark, Norway and Iceland aren't due to come round until after ten, anyway, so there's still plenty of time to get all of the presents out the way._

_The Christmas tree is bright and colourful, covered with fairy lights, baubles and other festive decorations. Sealand is quite proud of his work- after all, he helped Finland decorate it a couple of weeks beforehand. Underneath the tree are an abundance of presents, a large portion of them for Sealand himself._

_A grin spreads across the young micronation's face. Oh yes. This is going to be very, very fun._

* * *

_Sealand isn't in much trouble for opening the presents early. It's Christmas and he is an excitable child- no one is going to condemn him for that._

_'You should open them in front of everybody,' Finland chastises, fussing over him like a mother hen. He isn't angry in the slightest, and they both know it._

_'Norway got me a book about fairytales.'_

_'It's nice, isn't it?'_

_Sealand doesn't want to point out that he, as a mature and aspiring nation who will one day become the greatest country in the world, is a little too old for fairytales, so he nods and goes 'Mm hmm.'_

_The Nordics have all gathered in the living room to exchange presents and chat, which will probably turn into a drinking contest that only Denmark will actually want to participate in. Which will also eventually lead to either Norway or Sweden trying to drag or throw a seriously drunk Dane out of the house once he's passed out, to which Sealand will giggle at quite a lot. At least, that's what happened_ last _Christmas, and the micronation is quite keen to see it happen away._

_He himself is lying on his stomach on the living room carpet, colouring away in his new sketchpad. He's determined as a new year's resolution next week to become better than Wy at art over 2011, and now seems like a good time to start practicing._

_From this angle he can easily spot the underneath of the Christmas tree just a few feet away. Aside from a couple of piles of excess wrapping paper that he tore off the presents earlier on, there's nothing else there. All the presents have been unwrapped now. There aren't anymore._

_Sealand's eyebrows scrunch together in a very small frown._

_He's not being greedy. Definitely not. He's just being observant. Something's a bit off._

_'Are there any more?' he asks a little hopefully._

_'Any more what?' Iceland asks._

_'Presents.'_

_Denmark chuckles. 'I wish.'_

_Finland smiles. 'Surely you've had enough, Sea? You've had some great presents this year.'_

_'I know,' Sealand says quickly. He really doesn't want to sound spoilt. Acting spoilt is something little kids do, and he is_ not _a little kid. 'I like my presents. They're great.'_

_The Nordics seem satisfied with this response and they easily slide back into the conversation they were having beforehand. Sealand resumes his drawing, happily sketching away as he nibbles down on a candy cane that he snatched off the Christmas tree when no one was looking. It's tasty but it wouldn't have been been his his first choice to snack on._

_Something's missing._

_It's a shame, Sealand concludes as it dawns on him. Not a major inconvenience but it's always been a bit of a Christmas tradition for him. Someone, whoever it always is, has forgotten to get him a box of chocolates this year._

* * *

_Later on in the evening, Sealand is in his room, trying out the new telescope that Iceland got him and Sweden helped set up. It's a bit too cloudy to see anything properly so after about ten minutes he decides that tonight probably won't really be good enough for it._

_Feeling a little hungry and wondering if there might be any Christmas cake left, Sealand leaves his bedroom and heads for the stairs. As he's approaching the steps, however, he hears his name being mentioned from the kitchen downstairs. The micronation pauses and decides to stay exactly where he is and eavesdrop. Like a spy or a secret agent. Sealand grins. That sounds cool._

_'… does Sealand know yet?' Norway is asking. From what Sealand can tell, it's only him and Finland in the kitchen._

_'I don't think so. They don't tend to have much contact, despite living so close to each other. But there are plenty of countries that haven't found out yet.'_

_'Well it's been a month and a half. People really should be knowing about it by now.'_

_'That long? Oh, that's not good, is it? How terrible...' Finland's voice sounds rather disheartened._

_'It's not too much cause for concern. Yet. Nations have gone missing before, during wars or economic collapses. We've all had moments of seclusion when bad things happen to us.'_

_'But... his country's not in any immediate crisis. And his brothers are fine, and they're connected via the union, aren't they? Surely if it was a national problem then Scotland and Wales would be affected by it too?'_

_Sealand leans on the bannister, craning his head a little to listen. Their voices are getting a bit quieter now as the conversation grows increasingly sombre._

_And they must be talking about jerk England._

_'He's not just hiding,' Norway murmurs. 'They can't sense him. Not anywhere across the UK.'_

_'Maybe he just went on holiday. A long holiday.'_

_'That's not like him. He's not really one for that sort of thing, and if he really had done then he definitely would have told someone. He's not irresponsible.'_

_'He'll show up eventually,' Finland says optimistically. 'I expect this will all blow over soon enough. I'm sure he's fine.'_

_'Yeah, lighten up, guys! It's Christmas!' comes Denmark's drunken laugh from the living room. Sealand hears Norway sigh in exasperation._

* * *

_It's quite late now and the others are getting ready to head home. Sealand (who really should be in bed by now) is once again creeping down the stairs, though this time he does have the intention of being spotted._

_'Hey, Norway?' he calls out as he spots the Norwegian pulling his coat off the rack by the front door._

_Norway peers up at the micronation as Sealand comes down the stairs. 'Shouldn't you be asleep by now?'_

_Sealand pouts. 'Nope! I'm too old to be going to bed so early.'_

_Norway raises his eyebrows, clearly amused. 'I'm sure.'_

_'So, um... what was that about jerk England?'_

_Norway looks surprised. 'You heard that?'_

_Sealand nods, looking a bit sheepish. 'Has he gone missing?'_

_'He... well, yes.' Norway seems rather uncomfortable discussing it with the micronation. 'But your older brothers are looking for him. He'll show up.'_

_Sealand feels a little peculiar. Kind of nervous in a way, and certainly curious. Not enough to be worried (after all, jerk England is not worth the concern), but intrigued in a slightly anxious way._

_'But a few of his friends, myself included, are a little worried. That's all,' Norway finishes._

_Before he knows what's happening, Sealand is giggling. He's not even sure why. It's not actually as funny as it would normally be. But he laughs anyway. He can't help it._

_'Since when does the jerk have friends?' he chuckles._

_'Sealand, that's not very nice,' Finland admonishes, stepping into the hallway. 'He's your brother. And you know Norway is friends with him.'_

_A part of Sealand wants to be able to stop laughing, but he can't._

_England. Friends._

_That's hilarious._

_Sealand heads off to sleep soon after, for real this time. As he climbs into bed, he wonders why he laughed. As funny as it is usually, it probably isn't now. England is missing._

Serves the jerk right. Maybe they'll get Scotland or Wales to replace him in world meetings, and when he comes back they won't let him in anymore. See how _he_ likes being kept out! _Sealand thinks, but the element of vindictive pleasure he'd usually have at these thoughts is absent. Honestly, he doesn't feel happy about it like he would have thought he'd be._

 _He's not worried about the jerk. Anyway, England's supposed to be all experienced and everything. He used to be the most fearsome pirate to sail the seas, right? (Sealand still doesn't quite believe it, but Denmark swears it's true and the others never argue with him about it.) How can the former British Empire have gotten lost?_ That's _probably what's so funny about it. It's ridiculous._

_Once sleep takes a hold of him, something familiar returns to Sealand. Some dreams can be remembered for years. Others are gone within seconds of consciousness. Sometimes, however, remnants of them come back in other dreams. Similar dreams. Or in this instance, the exact same dream, on repeat every night, forgotten by morning and remembered only when he sleeps._

_Sealand recalls it now. It's dark. There's nothing to be seen but a pitch black void. It's the sound that matters. From when these dreams started occurring, back in November, there has been hardly any noise at all. Just a little muffled whisper here and there, barely audible. That's what it's like every night. The dreams aren't disturbing or anything. Sealand doesn't understand them, but he's not concerned or anything. He won't even remember any of it in the morning._

_But this time round, things have changed._

_The darkness is still here, but the noise has grown louder, almost coherent now. It's definitely a voice._

'… H...'

_Sealand is perplexed. The sound echoes, but not like it would do as if it were bouncing off the walls of a room. It's not coming from an exterior source; the voice is quite clearly inside his own head. But it's not his own voice._

'… Hel...'

_Is the voice trying to greet him? '… Hello?' Sealand tries hesitantly._

'… Hel...'

_'Hello? Who are you? Hello?'_

'… Help...'

_Sealand feels cold. This isn't right. Why does he keep having these dreams? Why does he always forget them? Why do they and all memory of them only come back to him when he is asleep? Are they going to get clearer now? And who is this voice, calling out for help?_

'… Help... please...'

_'Who are you? Why do you need help?' Sealand calls out, but already he can feel a shift in the dream. The presence of the voice seems to have dissipated and the darkness is lightening, already forming into a random, normal dream. His words are greeted with silence. Whoever it was, they are gone now._

_Perhaps none of it matters. He'll probably forget the dream by morning, like he has done with all its predecessors._

_He is wrong._

* * *

'We should be out looking for him,' Wales says. 'This meeting is unnecessary.'

'It's easier if we're all face to face,' Germany replies. 'This way we can decide what is to be done instead of us all wasting our time constantly phoning or texting each other to determine who searches where.'

A small, secluded lounge in the hotel the British Isles are all sharing, actually situated on the very same floor and only a few doors down from Scotland and England's room, has been reserved this morning for all the nations gathered here. Each one is ready to be distributed a location to search for England. Sealand watches the nations frantically discussing what is to be done with a certain degree of fascination. In all this pandemonium, Wales seems to have forgotten that he would generally prefer to keep Sealand out of this. But Wales is panicking at has quite a lot on his mind, so the micronation can understand why he hasn't been removed from the room.

Is this what world meetings are actually like? Sealand has snuck into plenty of them in the past and some of those occasions have even lasted quite a long time, but he generally isn't subjected to much of it. What little he has seen of them has been filled with chaos, disorder and nations yelling at each other, so he reaches the conclusion that this is probably the norm. And they call _him_ a child! He would find it hilarious, under normal circumstances.

But England is missing again, and for some reason this isn't as funny as it could be. Just like how it was never funny to begin with. Certainly less so than before, because back then Sealand thought that England's disappearance wouldn't last long, and it wasn't all too concerning, given their strained relationship and Sealand's then naïve belief that nothing was truly wrong.

But now...

This time, things definitely are different. Those five years opened Sealand's eyes quite a bit, especially when he started to realise that this wasn't just some temporary thing and that something was very, very wrong. The dreams began to illuminate how serious it was, and now as he sits here, listening to all these older countries arguing and knowing that England is missing again, he's starting to dread the thought of those dreams returning.

Yesterday, when he saw England again, he could tell things had changed. The older nation didn't act all haughty and irritated as he always used to do, but was instead restless, anxious and almost a little shaky. It makes sense, of course. Sealand knows that bad things happened to England. Very bad things. He knows because of the things he heard in those terrible dreams. The things he sometimes wishes to forget, just like England seems to have done.

Sealand squirms impatiently in his seat. These older nations are all idiots, he's sure of it now. He's already told them that England is probably in the park. That's where Sealand would go, anyway. Over the last five years he has often found comfort in the faes' words, as they are some of the few who actually listen to him.

'Jerks,' he says with a pout, but no one is listening to him.

'We shouldn't rule out the 'ospital, 'e could be there-' France is saying.

'He's really not on good terms with Scotland right now, I seriously doubt it.'

'When 'as 'e ever been on good terms with Scotland? Perhaps 'e has decided to 'ide exactly where we would least expect 'im to be.'

Sealand glances over at America, who is beside him. The bigger nation's eyes are closed and he's wearing an unfamiliar frown. He seems deep in concentration.

Sealand grows curious. 'What are you doing?'

Without opening his eyes, America replies, 'If we focus really hard, we can tell if another country is on our land, and figure out roughly where they might be. That's how everyone searched for him the first time round.'

'Oh. So, is he in the park then?'

America smirks. 'You're quite sure you're right, little dude.'

Sealand rolls his eyes. 'That's because I am right. Not that these jerks have realised this yet.'

America looks amused. 'Just ignore them, man. I hope you're right.'

'Well? Am I?'

America grins. 'You worried about Iggy?'

'No! Of course not!' Sealand protests immediately, scowling. 'I just want to prove to everyone that I'm right. Which I am. Probably. Anyway, you're the one who's worried.'

America laughs and opens his mouth to probably give a similar answer to the one Sealand provided, only to hesitate and seemingly change his mind. 'Yeah, I guess I am,' he says quietly.

Sealand stares at him. So does Canada, who is sitting on America's other side and is probably the only other nation not engaged in the argument.

'You're admitting it for all to hear now,' Canada says, smiling widely with a strange shine in his eyes. He seems rather delighted that his brother isn't laughing the accusation away like he would do normally. Despite years of denying England's death, America was never one to openly express just how scared he was.

Although his eyes are still closed, Sealand can see America roll them under his eyelids. 'Hardly anyone's listening, bro. Besides, Iggy is not okay right now. That's pretty frickin' obvious. He... you know... he really needs help. So, as the hero, I'm totally gonna find him!'

'With my help,' Sealand puts in, crossing his arms. 'I'm the one who told you where he probably is.'

'Right, yeah. The hero and his trusty sidekick!'

'I'm not your sidekick!'

Canada sighs, but it is clear he is amused by the pair. The smile fades, however, as he focuses back on the group discussion, his mind probably once again occupied with his concern for England.

'He could have gone back to investigate the broken mirror-'

'No, he said he'd detected all that he could from it yesterday and there was no magical residue, so why would he?'

'And what if he was lying about that?' Russia says a little too casually. 'He seemed a little shifty when he came back into the room. Quite on edge, da?'

'He's seems on edge _all_ the time now, Russia, that really isn't saying much,' Germany mutters.

'Amérique and Canada both went in to check on Angleterre,' France puts in. 'Do either of you think 'e may have been 'iding something?'

'Oh, u-um,' Canada says quickly, clearly surprised that he has suddenly been put in the spotlight. 'Well, uh, like Germany said, it's kind of hard to tell, because England seems to always be on edge.'

'England-san must have had a very good reason to run away in the middle of the night,' Japan says.

'He was scared,' Wales says quietly.

'What? Why? Canada and I were both there,' France says, looking thoroughly confused.

'I don't know the reasons why, but I'm sure his fear drove him out. And he must have been pretty damn terrified to run like that.'

'Do you think another entity showed up?'

'He wouldn't have left you two there if one had. Whether there was an actual threat or not, England's not thinking straight right now. I think he might be delusional. He's definitely got quite severe PTSD, and I'm not surprised, considering.'

Sealand still has no idea what PTSD is, but it's clearly quite an important detail. The other nations are all paying their full attention.

'Considering what?' Germany asks.

When Wales doesn't answer, Japan presses on further. 'What aren't you telling us, Wales-san?'

Wales stares straight ahead, a rather dull look in his eyes. 'It's not for me to say. Scotland and I have already betrayed England's trust enough already. I'm done with all that. If and when England's ready to discuss it, then I'll talk.'

There are a few moments of silence, then Italy whispers, 'What if England's left the country?'

'He hasn't,' America says finally, opening his eyes. 'He's still here, I can tell. He's close. Really close.'

'How close?' Italy says eagerly. 'Where exactly? Can you tell? We should go out and find him now-'

'Th-that won't be n... necessary.'

Sealand turns in shock, as do all of the other nations. Standing in the doorway is England, looking more ragged and exhausted than ever before, yet still a wild glint in his eyes. Next to him is Ireland, who smirks at the room's inhabitants.

'This close,' America says. He looks relieved.

'So, uh... turns out Sealand was right. He was in the park. Good job, kid... Yeh should see all yer faces, honestly,' Ireland jokes, though his words fall all a rather heavy silence.

Wales gets to his feet, his eyes fixed on England, and Sealand is instantly reminded of a cobra he once saw in a documentary, rising up and poised to strike. All of a sudden, the middle brother of the British Isles doesn't seem so mellow and chilled-out anymore.

'Where- the _hell-_ have you been?' he says very, very quietly, and Sealand feels the strange urge to shiver.

Ireland laughs nervously. 'Okay, so maybe don't go completely psycho, Wales. We should all probably calm d-'

'I,' Wales spits, 'was worried _sick_ about you.'

England doesn't meet his eyes. He says nothing.

Wales takes a step towards him. 'We were _all_ worried sick about you. You- you don't get to do that. You don't get to disappear for five years, come back- _and carry on leaving all the time._ You don't get to just run off like that. Not in this state, not _ever.'_

And, strangely enough, not at any point does Sealand find himself disagreeing with Wales.

England slowly looks up. He is shaking, but probably not from Wales's words (though they are certainly enough to send chills through everyone). He is quite pale and looks very cold.

Wales reaches him and the two stand in silence for a second. Wales lifts his arms up ever so slightly, barely noticeable, and for a second Sealand wonders if he's going to fight England. But no, this is _Wales._ He may be angry, but he's not _that_ angry.

But then England takes a deep breath, steps forward and Wales fiercely wraps his arms around him. And then it becomes clear that Wales was asking for a hug, still remembering to ask for _permission_ despite being so incredibly upset. And England is allowing it, which must really be something because apparently he hasn't been all too fond of hugs lately.

'Don't you ever do that again,' Wales growls, but Sealand can see the smile on his face now.

''M s... sorry,' England whispers, his voice barely audible.

* * *

'I know you're awake, jerk. I saw you jump. Wales says you freak out when you wake up.'

England sighs. So much for discreet. He woke up a few seconds ago, very much aware that the other nations might be in the room with him, and he immediately resolved to stay in control. _Don't freak out in front of them. Don't panic. It's supposed to be alright now. You promised Ireland you'd try and keep it together. They're going to help you, and they're going to_ listen _. That's what Ireland_ _promised you_ _in return._

But as he sits up and looks around his room, the only person he can actually spot is Sealand, who is sitting on Scotland's bed, fiddling with the TV remote and he changes channels.

'There's just boring stuff on,' Sealand mutters. 'American news. No movies or anything.'

'W... where are the others?' England asks.

Sealand skips to the next channel, which turns out to be some reality TV show. It doesn't seem to amuse him in the slightest. 'They stayed in the lounge after you fell asleep to talk about what happens next.'

'You didn't s-stay with th... them?'

'Nope. I've been given an important job.'

'And w... what's that?'

Sealand turns to him and grins. 'Making sure you don't do something stupid. I'm supposed to run and get them if you do anything. Or yell really, really loudly.' He seems quite proud of his special task.

England rolls his eyes. 'And what exactly d-do they think I'm g... going to do? I already p-promised I wouldn't r... run again.'

He's surprised that Ireland and the others are being so... reckless. True, none of them know the full extent of England's hallucinations, but exactly how much did Ireland hear in the park? Was he there when England was telling the fae about how dangerous he believes himself to be? Probably not, or they would never have left him alone with Sealand.

 _I'm a danger to them. I can't be trusted._ _What if I attack someone? What if I see something the wrong way and I panic and try to protect myself and I end up hurting someone?_ That's what he had said to the fae. Probably before Ireland arrived. The other countries don't know how bad it is inside England's head. They don't know how terrible a decision this was.

'M... maybe you should g-go back to th-them,' England says uncertainly, trying to see things from the other nations' perspectives. None of them have actually seen him displaying any violent behaviour recently (other than occasionally freaking out in response to physical contact, though he handled both Wales and Ireland's hugs). Knowing how much of a worry freak Wales is, however, England guesses this isn't as irresponsible as it looks. The lounge is only a few doors away. They're within hearing distance, if any noise in particular is quite loud.

As he glances at the door, he sees that it has been propped open ever so slightly. Easy and quick to open in an emergency, if Sealand has to quickly run and get them. They've probably instructed Sealand to leave as quickly as possible and come to them immediately if anything happens. Perhaps they haven't made too stupid a decision after all.

Still...

England doesn't trust himself. Not even a little bit. He can't risk hurting anyone. 'It must b-be boring, s... sitting in here. You sh-should go.'

'No way,' Sealand says. 'I've got a very important job to do. You can't get rid of me that easily. I'm not falling for it.'

Maybe Sealand thinks this is some way to prove to the other nations that he is responsible. Perhaps he believes it will help him get recognised as a country. But him being here could be bad. Very bad.

England closes his eyes. He's alright at the moment. His sleep was... peaceful. That's strange. But he was completely exhausted after the events at the pond, so after revealing himself to the other nations and being guided to his room he had fallen asleep pretty quickly. He didn't panic too badly when he woke up. The fact that the other nations aren't within his sight is helping, he guesses. He never does react too well around the others, so perhaps this isn't too bad. He's not hallucinating anything, as far as he can tell. The only person he can see is Sealand, and...

And so far he hasn't felt the need to panic around Sealand. Not at all. England opens his eyes and looks closely at his younger brother. And it finally dawns on England: Sealand is the first and only person who hasn't made England feel uneasy about being in the presence of. Each and every other nation has inadvertently caused discomfort. But not Sealand. Is it because he's a child? Logically, he hasn't got much of a chance of causing England harm. Maybe even England's paranoid mind knows that.

Sealand notices England watching him. 'I don't care what you want, jerk. I'm not doing what you say.'

'You t-told them I was p... probably in the park, didn't you?' England says.

Sealand crosses his arms. 'Yeah? So what? Serves you right, for running away.'

England feels an uneasy squirm in his stomach. 'D... did it upset you?'

Sealand laughs unkindly. 'Of course not, you massive jerk! I told on you because I wanted to foil your plan, of course! I beat you!' He seems rather pleased at the thought.

England looks away with a very small smile. 'Well, th... thank you.'

'What?'

'Thank you for helping. I p-probably would have done something v... very stupid if Ireland hadn't found me.'

Sealand turns his head a little so England won't see his face, but the older country still catches a glimpse of a pink blush on the child's cheeks. 'I wasn't trying to help you! I was doing it for me!' he protests loudly.

Maybe this isn't so bad. Maybe England really can keep a level head, after all. He's feeling a lot more at ease than he has done at any other point over the last few days. Maybe Ireland was right. Maybe he really can get better. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

'I spy with my little eye, something beginning with G.'

England snaps back to attention. 'What?'

Sealand turns the TV off, pouting. 'It's really boring. So we should play a game. G.'

England glances around the room but he can't spot any likely candidates. 'I d... don't know. It can't b-be Germany, he's not here.'

'You give up?'

'I suppose.'

'Genius. As in me. I'm the genius. Because I figured out the mystery of the Christmas chocolates. Someone always used to send me a box of chocolates for Christmas, but they stopped coming in 2010. Sounds a little suspicious, don't you think?' Sealand raises his eyebrows and puts on a very serious face as he lifts one hand to cup his chin thoughtfully, clearly playing the part of a detective.

'Is that s... so?' England replies, feeling a tiny bit of amusement spark within him.

'And another clue: they were always Cadbury's chocolates. Which come from your country. Funny, that.'

'Indeed. C-curious.'

Sealand watches him for a few more seconds before jumping back into the game. 'So! Seeing as you didn't get it, that means it's my go again! I spy with my little eye, something beginning with J!'

'Jerk,' England guesses immediately.

'Ha! So you admit you're a jerk!'

'That's not what I was... never mind. I spy with my little eye...' He quickly scans the room, looking for an object of interest. And all of a sudden, with a jolt in his stomach and a catch in his throat, he is reminded of something he hasn't done yet, something he always does when he wakes up. His moment of peace is over. Of course it is. It never would have lasted. The rest of his surroundings, his current situation, it is all forgotten in an instant. England leaps to his feet.

'Knife,' he says.

'No, stupid, you're supposed to say the letter, not give the answer away,' Sealand chides him, rolling his eyes.

But England's mind is racing. He should be searching for his knife. He needs it (no he doesn't, _for God's sake, just calm down, don't do this now, it's okay, you're okay, just relax),_ he _always_ needs it.

They're all here. The other nations are too close, they're all too close, he's _not safe-_

Wait.

Germany has it. That's what France and Canada told him. What if he has it on him right now? _The knife could be here. I could get it back right now-_

 _'It's a pretty knife, isn't it?'_ says America's voice in his head.

_No. Not America. Other America._

_'The hilt suits you,' the red-eyed America says, his fingers running down the handsome green wood. 'Matches your eyes. Maybe it was meant for you, after all.' He gives a very light laugh, then grabs the hilt tightly in his hand and brings it down, straight into England's chest-_

England bites down so hard on his bottom lip in an effort to keep from screaming that for a second he's certain it must have fallen off. If anything, that just enhances his instinct to cry out. His hands fly up to his mouth instantly and he can already taste the blood on his tongue.

'What... what's going on?' Sealand says hesitantly, the smile long-gone from his face.

England takes a few deep breaths. No. He can't do this now. He _will not_ do this now. He will ignore the fact that his vision is flashing and blurry and chest feels like it's about to explode with nerves and he's going to be sick and _the knife is splitting open his skin and digging into his flesh-_

'Do... do I go and g-get someone?' Sealand stutters, his blue eyes wide. He looks terrified and he sends frequent glances towards the door.

 _No, no no no no no, please no. Not them. Too dangerous. Too frightening. Oh God. Oh God. Stop this. Please just stop this._ His vision keeps flashing. One second he is standing here in this room, facing Sealand, the next he is strapped to a table as the red-eyed America bends over him, _slowly pushing down the knife and twisting-_

England chokes. This isn't fair. None of this is fair. It's supposed to finally be getting better now- Ireland promised that they would all try as hard as they could to help England, and England is trying as hard as he can to cope. But his own head is not making it easy.

Through the flashing imagery, he catches sight of two frightened blue eyes fixed on him, growing smaller as they move further away. Sealand is backing away towards the door, and England suddenly amends his previous thoughts.

No. It isn't fair. It isn't fair on Sealand. So wrapped up in his own panic, England has barely acknowledged how scared the micronation must be. _Selfish twat,_ England's brain says spitefully to himself, and he knows for certain that it is definitely his own voice, not his counterpart's or Other America's.

'It's okay,' he coughs, his voice sounding strangled. 'D... don't panic. It's f-fine.'

'Should I get the others?' Sealand repeats nervously.

 _NO!_ England's brain screams fearfully, and he winces. 'N... no.' But would Sealand be safer if he left the room? 'I m-mean... I've g-got it under c... control. B-but... this will p-pass in a m... minute; I just n-need to...' _Run._ '… sit d-down.'

He lowers himself slowly onto the bed, resting his head in his hands. Yes. This is good. He's handling it appropriately and responsibly. This is important.

But Sealand might not be safe, and that is far _more_ important.

'C... could I perhaps have a l-little privacy?' England murmurs. 'L-like you said, it's b... boring in here. N-no need to b... bother the other n-nations or anything, j-just...'

Sealand scowls. 'How stupid do you think I am, jerk? You're freaking out right now, like Wales said you do. And when you do that, you always try to run. So someone's got to stay watching you. And that's my job. Plus, you're never that polite to me. You couldn't make it anymore obvious, really.' Despite still hovering anxiously near the door, Sealand manages to smirk, clearly proud of his deductions.

'I'm not g-going to r... run, I swear. I j-just need to c-clear my head. I'll only n... need a few minutes-'

He breaks off in shock as he hears a group of familiar voices. Sealand looks pretty surprised too, glancing quickly behind him at the slightly ajar door. The other nations have left the meeting room and are in the corridor outside.

England feels his whole body go cold, and hates himself for it. The sounds of their voices are like unexpected crashes close by, each one making him instinctively jump. He was ever so relieved that upon arriving at the hotel and reuniting with them, Wales had insisted he needed more rest and had taken him to his room straight away. He could never had stayed in that room with them, surrounded and eyes fixed directly on him.

_They must be coming here..._

England stands up again, unsure of what to do. He promised he wouldn't run. There's no way he'd be able to, anyway. Sealand and the other nations are all in his way. So, what? Just stand here and inevitably have another breakdown? There's only so long he can keep his shit together.

'… maybe I shouldn't. I mean, he's... he's probably not gonna be okay if I'm there,' comes America's voice, followed by a weak laugh. 'I could just, um, wait outside.'

England is certain each one of his hairs is on end. It's all so chilling: the sound of America's voice, completely identical to that of his counterpart in all but the tone it's being used in; the words themselves, painfully calm and light-hearted, clearly hurt. Enough to completely submerge England in shame.

He's ashamed of causing America what must be a great deal of anxiety and likely a large amount of pain too. And he's ashamed of the fact that even after realising exactly _why_ he's scared to be around America and knowing that America, _this_ America, is completely not at fault, he still can't control his fear. It's still there.

England doesn't even realise his legs have slowly given way until his knees touch the floor. He sinks downwards, wanting more than anything than to just disappear on the spot. _Pathetic,_ his brain says again. Definitely his own voice.

Sealand stares at him. He's not smirking or glaring now. He just looks confused, and maybe even a little concerned, though England could just be imagining that part. 'What's wrong now?' He looks back at the door again, beyond which the voices are definitely growing louder. 'There aren't any bad things around. It's just your fr...' He falters.

'What?' England says hoarsely, almost pleading. He needs a distraction. Anything to keep him from thinking about the approaching countries. _Focus on Sealand. Listen to what he has to say. Don't think about them._

Sealand has a peculiar look on his face. 'Huh. Never thought I'd admit you have any of those.'

'Any of w-what?' Time is running out. The other nations must be very close now. England is clinging onto the micronation's every word. They are the only things keeping him from losing his battle of instincts.

And then Sealand _smiles_ , as if something is highly amusing. His eyes shine with entertainment.

'I spy with my little eye, something beginning with F.'

A game to keep England's mind occupied. He's happy to play. But the other countries must only be mere feet from the door and he's feeling so sick with dread...

'F... f...' Even if he could think of a word, he doubts he'd be able to say it. The quiver in his voice still hasn't left. 'F...'

Sealand sighs in false exasperation. 'Come on. It's easy. Seriously? You really are bad at this game, jerk. I'll give you a clue: it's right outside the door. Rather, _they're_ right outside the door.'

England opens his mouth but no sound comes out. _They're right outside the door. They're_ here. _It's too late._

' _Friends_. The word is _friends.'_

England's heart thuds to a stop. At least, it feels like it. The world has gone rather quiet.

'Was that really so difficult?' Sealand's voice sounds surprisingly soft. His eyes lock with his brother's and his smile is probably the warmest one he has ever directed at England.

England himself can hardly breathe. _Friends._ Was that deliberate? Did Sealand, the naïve, innocent little kid somehow know to do that? Was it actually an attempt to put his mind at rest?

 _Friends._ There's a knock on the door. Someone is asking if they can all come in. The sound isn't jabbing at England's nerves. It's just a voice, nothing more. If anything, it sounds gentle.

 _Friends._ England thinks of how worried Wales was for him, how the G8 had wanted to discuss how to go about addressing his mental state, how Canada had said all those kind words to him yesterday, how Ireland had come and essentially rescued him this morning while promising that he and the others would help England, how America has been looking out for England all week despite the rather obvious barrier between the two, how he argued with the rest of the world when they all reached their conclusion about England, how he and Sealand were the only ones who believed differently, how Scotland and the others are probably trying to make up for it now...

England climbs to his feet as the door opens. He knows he can't trust his instincts just yet, and perhaps he won't be able to for a very long time; maybe even forever. But he knows that he should at least try. He's got a very good reason to, after all.

_Friends._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone reviewed a while ago saying how poetic it would be if this story ended on its anniversary. I laughed for like five minutes. As far as I'm aware, this thing ain't even half way. *the angstfest of horror continues*
> 
> Once again, I'm trying to balance Sealand's childish side with a rarer, slightly astute version of him. Well, I say 'once again'- I'll probably be doing it quite a lot in this story. He didn't know exactly what was wrong with England in that last part but through those dreams he used to have he knows that very bad things have happened to England and he picked up on the current situation and handled it in a rather innocent manner. Tried to show he cared too. Without him actually even acknowledging it in his own POV. This kid's got a lot of denial.
> 
> Wanted to emphasise his change of opinion on England having friends too, as it's kind of what England needs right now: to know that he does have friends, and they they really do want to help him get better. I hope Sealand wasn't too OOC at the end there, cuz like I said, I wanted to show that he really does care.
> 
> Who knows when I see you guys next? Probably some time in December. XD
> 
> Remember to review! Peace out, bitches ;)


	17. Brave Faces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE.
> 
> Yeah, I'm shocked too. Bit of a late update, I know, but as December dragged on and I still hadn't finished the chapter it became clearer and clearer that I should aim to finish it and post it today, so here we are.
> 
> MERRY CHRISTMAS/HAPPY HOLIDAYS/IF YOU DON'T CELEBRATE ANYTHING I HOPE YOU'RE HAVING A NICE DAY ANYWAY. EVERYONE GETS AN UPDATE :D
> 
> Long chapter too. 'Tis truly a Christmas miracle.
> 
> Warnings: mentions of torture, though not too specific or I might have to boost the rating to an M, which I don't want to do. And your monthly dose of angst, as always.
> 
> And the stuttering continues. Ellipses and hyphens reign supreme.
> 
> Your reviews for the last chapter were beautiful, thank you so much. Tbh your reviews are always beautiful. I love you guys, have I mentioned?
> 
> Anywho, allons-y!

_There's a routine, a pattern. Now that time has passed and his mind has adjusted to perform actual thought process besides screaming internally, England has begun to notice._

_Other America tends to rotate between the little knives, the medium ones, the large ones, all the various other blades and sharp, twisted and spinning objects, and finally his machete, always in that exact order. The little knives are the least painful, and the machete is the most agonising. The variations in pain aren't entirely down to the size of the instrument- in fact, he uses different tools for different areas of England's body. The little and medium knives are generally for his arms and legs, the bigger ones more orientated towards his stomach. All the other ones save for the machete are for wherever Other America sees fit at the present time. The machete is always for England's chest, and it tends to venture almost curiously up towards his throat at the very end of the round. And right at the moment England is convinced that his throat is going to be slit for sure, Other America takes it down several notches and retrieves the little knives to start the round again._

_England finds his mind is able to start processing thoughts as it would do normally when only the small and medium knives are at work. When the larger knives and all the other instruments are being used on him, the pain is of course greater, and his mind is more engaged with the agony than with its ability to dwell over anything else. And when it's the machete... there's nothing but the burning of the blade. The agony is all that exists during that part of the round. There's no way his mind would be able to process anything else._

_After such a long time being strapped to the table, being forced to play Other America's game, he can barely feel the minor weapons. His skin is numb; or rather, it registers no new burning sensations from the blades, because it's now permanently burning. Like being in the middle of the ocean, growing accustomed to the cold._

_He still cries out, but not with the knives. The miscellaneous instruments and the machete are enough to make him scream, but eventually the sound of his own voice grows muffled and automatic, like it's not even his._

_There's some scheme at work here, there_ must _be. The disturbing, yet logical fact of the matter is, England has now developed a preference._

 _He_ yearns _for the knives._

_They are the nice part. They're his favourite part of each round. He spends the rest of the time, especially the parts involving the machete, wishing for the knives to come back. He can almost ignore the pain when it's only the knives; it hurts the least. And he can almost think properly, can almost engage his mind in anything beyond the pain. He misses the knives when they're not in use. He craves their return when the other instruments are in use._

_Of course, he would prefer it if this session ended completely, if_ everything _ended completely. But he knows that a sweet release won't be coming as simply as that. So the knives are the best case scenario. They're his true relief, his safety. He's almost dependent on them._

 _And worst of all, it's only when they're in use that England's brain is strong enough_ _to comprehend how_ wrong _this is._

_Other America is engineering his mind. That must be the scheme- to make him rely on the smaller blades, for them to be his reward at the end of each excruciating session with the machete. To make him enjoy the knives in this twisted little way._

_At some point, he dully realises that Other America does indeed finally look how he's supposed to in this world: the tanned skin and the dark brown hair. The enchantment has slowly worn off for good. His image doesn't flicker into the appearance of his counterpart anymore. This provides another small dose of relief for England._

_A corkscrew spiralling into his shoulder and shooting jets of electric-like pain through his nerves distracts him from his recent revelations. He hisses and groans without even fully registering the process of his muscles in his mouth and throat. It's like it's not even his own body announcing the received pain, only_ feeling _it._

_Next is the machete. England's mind registers nothing at all during this part, save for the only thing that does matter: the machete itself, carving its way slowly up his chest, heading its way for his throat, cutting deeper and deeper each time._

_When the knives finally come back, England sighs in relief, and almost smiles._

* * *

_'Don't be too brutish, Al!' Other England's voice calls fussily as he enters the room, carrying a large tray completely covered in elegantly designed cupcakes. England can barely lift his head to look at his doppelgänger but the other Brit approaches the table England is lying on quickly enough, eager to look down at Other America's handiwork._

_'Like any of this too brutish for you,' Other America remarks, rolling his eyes. 'And your charm thing doesn't work for shit. He knows I'm not the other America.'_

_Other England places the tray down on the side table, next to all of Other America's instruments. He folds his arms and pouts disapprovingly. 'I told you the enchantment wouldn't work indefinitely. And I want a pound for that.'_

_'I don't give two shits about your swear jar. And why the hell would I use your currency?'_

_Other England sighs. 'Two pounds. Three if we count 'hell'.'_

_Other America stares at him. 'You have got to be kidding me.'_

_'Never mind that for now!' Other England says, the pout disappearing and being replaced by an excitedly, bubbly smile. He bounces over to England and grins down at him. 'Enjoy the game? I bet Al did! He must let me have a go next time!'_

_Other America makes a 'tsk' noise. 'You've had a whole month as your go. You probably just kept poisoning him.'_

_'He only ate_ one _of the cupcakes! He's very stubborn! And he's got a bit of a bad mouth on him, too! He owes me quite a lot for the swear jar!'_

 _'Mention the jar one more time and I'm tying_ you _down to the table for a little session,' Other America threatens._

_With his eyes squeezed shut in a happy yet eerie smile that sends a shiver up England's spine and somehow reminds him a little of Russia, Other England turns to Other America and very cheerfully says, 'I'd like to see you try.'_

_Other America's face twitches slightly, almost like a very minor flinch, and he shifts ever so slightly away from Other England. 'You're insane, you know that?'_

_'Now that's not a very nice thing to say, Al,' Other England says sweetly, gently picking up one of the small knives on the table and twirling it expertly in his fingers, rather absentmindedly. 'I hope the two of you have had an enjoyable evening. I myself have had great fun planning out the next game, and I can promise it will be exciting.'_

_Other America, although a little hesitant at first, smirks and seems mostly in charge of the situation once again. 'Great. As long as it's not boring.'_

_Other England's electric blue eyes rest on his doppelgänger, the knife still rotating in his hands. 'Oh, don't worry,' he says softly. 'I'd hate for that to happen.'_

* * *

'England? Sealand? Is everything okay in there?' comes Wales's voice as the door opens. 'Is it alright to come in?'

Sealand tilts his head slightly, still watching England. He's clearly wondering if he should be the one to answer in case England hasn't collected himself properly yet. But England straightens up, fixing his eyes on the nations now standing in the doorway.

'It's f... fine,' he says.

'You sure?' Wales says hesitantly. 'Would you prefer it if it's just a couple of us who come in or-?'

England rather visibly rolls his eyes to emphasise a false sense of casual about him. He wants them to think he's calm. 'N... no. Everyone. We need t-to talk, right? That's what everyone's b-been trying to g... get me to do, isn't it? M... might as well t-take the opportunity now.'

Wales looks relieved. He opens his mouth to reply but Russia strides past in an instant, smiling widely. 'So we will all have a nice chat, da? Excellent!' he says pleasantly, stopping beside Sealand, who jumps a little in shock and looks rather nervous.

'Hello, England's little brother,' Russia says pleasantly.

'M-my name is Sealand!' Sealand squeaks indignantly, though his voice is rather small.

'Oh, okay. Hello, Sealand! And hello, England.' Russia's violet eyes fix on England. 'You are feeling well, da?'

'Better,' England replies as the rest of the nations file into the room.

'Still cold, though,' Russia says, a little quieter. The smile remains on his face but not in his eyes. 'Or perhaps not.'

England feels uneasy. 'W-what do you mean-?'

'... like I said before, maybe I should just, you know, wait out here,' he hears America say, and he glances over at the younger nation. America is hovering in the doorway, looking extremely uncertain, which is new for him because usually he is the confident one leading the way into most situations. England swallows nervously at the sight of him and his pulse speeds up. He just hopes his unease doesn't show. The last thing he needs to do is make an arse of himself now, right as he and the other nations are finally handling the situation.

 _Blonde hair. Paler skin. Definitely not_ him.

But Other America had blonde hair and paler skin too, before the enchantment had worn off and he had reverted back to his own colour scheme.

 _But he's in the other world. Not this one. He never was here. You just hallucinated him. You're being ridiculous,_ England chides himself. _Except..._

 _Except he may well have truly been here. Yesterday._ Which is exactly what England needs to clear up with his fellow nations. The events of yesterday need to be deciphered properly.

'Don't be ridiculous,' Canada says to his brother, his voice as soft as ever but still firm.

'Everyone,' England repeats, forcing himself to look America directly in the eye. A pair of blue eyes look right back at him. England's pounding heart softens and slows down slightly. He feels the strange urge to laugh in relief, but he manages to keep his composure.

His gaze travels over the other nations next. Wales looks a lot less stressed than before, which makes England feel a little less guilty. Italy is smiling brightly at him, while most of the others seem to be wearing fairly neutral expressions. There seems to be no hostility coming from anyone, which is another thing that is quite new. If anything, they're all quite guarded. Not in the sense that they're wary of England, more that they're concerned that they are the ones who will slip up in some way around him.

Pity. They pity him. It's clear on their faces. England resists the need to squirm uncomfortably. He can deal with antagonising behaviour but not _pity._ They're all acting very cautious around him like he could break at any second. To be fair, all evidence so far suggests that this is justified. But England can't be fragile. That kind of thing can't be tolerated, especially in front of others. A momentary lapse of vulnerability, the slightest sign of weakness, and he could end up _strapped to the table, screaming as the machete-_

 _No._ England briefly closes his eyes. _Don't think about that._

'R-right,' he says swiftly. 'First things f... first...'

'Are you sure you're ready to talk, England-san?' Japan asks softly.

England nods. 'Everything w-will make a lot m... more sense to you all w-when I do. I th-think. And I... I can't handle it b-by myself anym-more. I _shouldn't_. I almost w... went too far before Ireland f-found me.'

Ireland sends him a small smile, clearly satisfied that England has acknowledged his previous antics as a mistake.

'Too far?' France echoes. 'What do you mean by that?'

England shivers a little. 'J-just one thing. Before I explain. I d-don't want to d... do it here.'

'Not here? Where do you want to do this?' Germany asks.

'Th-the hospital,' England replies. 'I n... need Scotland to hear it all t-too, and I d-don't want to have to g... go repeating m-myself. Besides...' England briefly glances at America, his mind racing. He has to clear this up. 'There's something v-very important he has t... to know.'

* * *

America breathes in and out slowly, trying not to let panic set in. He really is going to look guilty if he acts like it.

But that look England sent him before was unsettling. Sure, it's pretty much become the norm for England to look at him with fear, but the words that went along with it? That's what concerns America. England had glanced at him very deliberately and said that there is something very important Scotland needs to know.

_Don't be an ass. This is stupid. You have nothing to worry about. You were nowhere near Scotland when he fell._

But what if England now believes it? What if he wants to tell everyone that Scotland is right?

No. England wouldn't do that. He can't possibly believe it, even if he is currently completely delusional.

 _England_ knows _me,_ America thinks. _Probably better than anyone else, even Canada. He raised me, for God's sake. He knows exactly what I'm like- he has to. He knows I'd never do something as..._ evil _as that._

'Do not fret, America-san,' Japan murmurs as the cab they're sharing pulls up at the hospital. They've come here in this car with Canada, while Russia, Germany and Italy have taken another one and the British Isles have all taken the final one. Sealand probably complained a lot about that. America almost manages a smile at the thought. He really is quite fond of the little micronation, and he's sure that Sealand is going to tell him all about how terrible the cab ride was when they're all inside the hospital. The kid seems to have absolutely no doubts about America's innocence, which America finds reassuring. He just wishes Sealand's older brothers were of the same opinion.

England probably complained about the transportation arrangements too. The old England would protest because he used to claim that he hated spending time with his brothers and he would find the experience highly irritating. The new England is probably panicking about being in a confined space with others, regardless of the fact that they're his family. America just hopes that England has endured the car ride successfully.

'England looked at me when he said the part about wanting to talk to Scotland,' America mumbles, knowing that he can trust his brother and Japan. 'He looked like he's decided Scotland's right about me.'

Canada shakes his head. 'He really didn't.'

America laughs bitterly. 'Yeah, right. He's completely terrified of me, so it makes sense to find a reason for it. And what better reason than believing that I attempted to murder his brother-'

'America, he really didn't look at you like that at all,' Canada says, smiling strangely. 'He didn't even look scared.'

'If I had to guess, I would say that England-san does in fact believe quite strongly in the exact opposite to what you think,' Japan agrees. 'This important discussion he wishes to have with Scotland-san is likely a chance for him to defend you. And he may even have evidence to support his argument.'

'Evidence?' America asks, tilting his head.

'Wales believes that England's regaining memories, possibly in his dreams. Apparently England admitted it to Scotland the other day. And Ireland pretty much confirmed this, didn't he?' Canada says. This is true. Although Ireland hasn't really elaborated on what happened in the park this morning or what he and England discussed, he did mention something about England having regained a month's worth of memories from his disappearance. Which of course makes sense, as England seemed to be sure of _where_ he'd been when he talked to America and Sealand yesterday.

America wonders if England told Ireland that he was in another world. So far, the only people America is certain know of the truth are himself and Sealand. He gets why England is probably reluctant to tell the other nations. They were all sceptical of magic, and the concept of an alternate dimension? Yeah, that might not sit well with them. But they all promised to listen, and America is happy to defend England's story.

'But even if he is remembering what happened to him,' he begins uncertainly, 'that won't offer evidence that I'm innocent. England was nowhere near the building when it happened, so it's not as if there's something about yesterday that he needs to remember.'

'Scotland-san has come to the conclusion that you also played a part in England-san's disappearance,' Japan says seriously, looking uncomfortable at bringing it up.

'Because I always stood against everyone else when England was declared dead,' America mutters. 'So Scotland thinks I knew something that everyone else didn't. Plus England's terrified of me and had a breakdown when he saw me at my house yesterday. Yeah, I get Scotland's logic, even if it is stupid and obviously wrong.'

'But don't you see, America-san?' Japan presses on. 'If England-san is remembering what happened to him, then he'll be able to prove that you had nothing to do with it.'

America blinks. 'So...'

Canada puts a hand on his brother's shoulder and smiles brightly. 'It's going to be cleared up, America. Didn't anyone tell you the reason England and Sealand went back to your house yesterday?'

'Well, to be honest I think everyone had more pressing stuff on their minds,' America admits.

'England stormed out of the hospital after Scotland accused you of pushing him,' Canada explains. 'He was furious. He and Sealand went straight to your house to warn you about the accusation, not to condemn you.'

'But he still had that breakdown when he saw me,' America tries. 'And none of us even know why-'

'One thing at a time,' Japan says. If he weren't such a calm person he'd probably sound impatient. 'I'm sure we're going to learn a lot today from England-san.'

'And honestly,' Canada says, a strange, knowing smile playing on his lips, 'the fact that you genuinely believe England blames you is concerning. As if he'd have that little faith in you.'

America watches as his brother and Japan take the lead, heading into the hospital with him trailing behind, and he wonders exactly what Canada means by this.

* * *

They all meet at the entrance. There are a few complications at the reception with regards to a limit on how many visitors a patient can receive at any one time, but the nations are prepared for this. A promise of it being an international and confidential emergency and a few flashed IDs later, an exception has been made for the group and they are permitted to visit Scotland's private room. Being nations, all with positions of high political power and strong connections, really has its perks.

Once again, America really feels as if he should wait outside.

'Scotland thinks I tried to kill him,' he admits, putting it rather bluntly. 'I really should stay out of his sight.'

Germany sighs. 'Ja, that would probably be best for the time being. We will of course have to talk him round so that you can come in and listen with the rest of us-'

'There's no way it will be that simple,' America says, aware that he sounds unnaturally gloomy. 'He's not exactly the most patient guy ever. He won't listen to any of you.'

'Oh, he w... will,' England says quietly. 'That's b... been his main focus w-with me. Getting m-me to talk. All he w... wants to do is l-listen to w-what I never say. B... but I'll talk.'

'You will?' America says, daring to risk a glance at England. Maybe, just maybe, Canada and Japan are right. The Brit is avoiding eye contact, though his general gaze seems to currently be looking downwards and certainly in America's direction. He seems rather small, with his arms pressed against his chest and his hands clutching them. Ireland and Wales stand on either side of him and Sealand right in front. The micronation seems perfectly at ease and there's even a smirk on his face, as if something has amused him.

'Y-yes,' England replies, his eyes flickering up and meeting America's for a second before quickly shooting back down again. He gives a very small shudder and it takes all of America's willpower not to give into despair right here and now, to beg England to tell him _why_ this is happening.

'Something beginning with L,' he hears Sealand whisper, the micronation's voice so quiet that it's practically inaudible.

'L... light,' England replies, his voice equally low. Hardly anyone appears to hear them playing this little game.

'Nope,' Sealand says.

'Ireland and I should go in first,' Wales decides. 'If Scotland sees England straight away he's probably going to become quite frantic and insist on England listening to... well, his accusations. We need to go in there first and tell him to hear England out, and for him to be a bit more... gentle.'

England rather visibly flinches at the last part, then scowls deeply. Wales seems to be already regretting his choice of words.

'S... stop that,' England says. 'Stop treating m-me like an invalid.'

'England-san,' Japan says carefully. 'I'm sure your brother meant no offence. He is simply looking out for your wellbeing.'

'You're all t-treading around m... me like I'm p-porcelain,' England hisses. 'Y-you can hardly say w... what you really think t-to my face, b-but opt to speak b... behind my back, where y... you think it's so m-much safer, for me and for y... yourselves.'

There is a ringing silence for a few seconds, then Sealand very softly prompts England. 'L?'

To America's surprise, England does not grow irritated with such a childish game like he would expect him to. The older country closes his eyes for a second, then opens then and lets them fall on a bedside table in one of the rooms near to where they're standing, clearly visible through an open door. 'Lamp.'

'No.' The micronation grins. 'You suck at this game.'

'Wales is right,' Germany says. 'He and Ireland should start this off. The rest of us will follow through afterwards and we'll wait until it's the right moment before America joins us.'

Wales and Ireland nod, then open the door and go inside. Everyone can just make out their muffled voices with the addition of Scotland's. After around two minutes, Wales appears and ushers the others inside. They leave the door slightly ajar so America won't miss any of the conversation.

'Yeah, so... I'll just wait out here,' America says, giving everyone a thumbs up. He shoots England and Sealand a grin, momentarily forgetting his current predicament with England. Honestly, the gesture feels so natural to him, like any other day at a meeting involving the two, back before everything went wrong. The micronation grins right back and marches forwards into the room like a little soldier, much to America's amusement.

He and England lock eyes again, and for the briefest moment, America is sure he spots England smile back.

* * *

Scotland does look considerably better, which is ever so slightly concerning. Being a nation, he is capable of healing much quicker than humans, and sooner or later the hospital staff are going to grow curious. This doesn't mean that the change in Scotland's appearance is overly noticeable; he's still wrapped up in casts and bandages, of course. But his eyes are a little brighter and he doesn't seem to be in as much pain as before.

'England,' he says, his eyes falling on his younger brother almost immediately.

'Yeah, never mind the rest of us,' Sealand says, rolling his eyes. Wales cuffs him very lightly on the head with a fond smile.

'Hello, Sealand,' Scotland says with a chuckle. The laugh doesn't seem to hurt his throat as much as it did when he laughed yesterday.

England steps over to his brother's bed and stops at the bottom of it, trying to keep his face as neutral as possible. 'Hello, S... Scotland.'

'Been a bit of a roller coaster for yeh since I last saw yeh?'

England shoots a glare at the other nations. 'What did you t-tell him?'

France holds his hands up in defence. 'Not much. Just that things didn't go so well yesterday.'

'They didn't actually have to tell me anything; I just assumed,' Scotland says sheepishly. 'I mean, yeh're living a rather hectic life right now, little brother. Presumably _something_ must have happened since I last saw yeh.'

'A f-few things, I s... suppose,' England mutters.

Scotland eyes him rather suspiciously. 'Are yeh well?'

'More so th-than you are.'

'In the head, England. How's yer head doing?'

England feels the urge to snap at his eldest brother for asking this question in front of everyone, though he supposes that everyone here already knows that he's gone completely mental. 'Oh, y-you know. Everything's p... peachy,' he says, the sarcasm flowing out before he can stop it.

'England...' Wales warns him.

'And what about America?' Scotland says rather abruptly, his eyes narrowing. Ireland and Wales clearly haven't mentioned that America is here yet, probably to keep Scotland calm as long as they can.

'Scotland,' Wales hisses. 'Not now.'

'Actually, Wales, I would say it's rather important,' Scotland says icily. 'For everyone's safety.'

Japan tries to handle this in a polite fashion. 'You see, Scotland-san, we're quite certain that everyone is safe. America-san isn't-'

'I know what happened to me, alright?' Scotland's voice grows louder. 'I remember what happened.'

Germany clears his throat uncomfortably. 'There are several things we all need to discuss here, Scotland. Perhaps we should try not to fall into a dispute just yet-'

'No, y-you know what? L... let's get this cleared up, sh-shall we?' England says boldly, crossing his arms. He's conscious of the door to the room being left open a little for America to hear.

Scotland takes a deep breath. 'I know yeh all think it's the concussion talking. But I know what I heard. It was his voice. It was America.'

'I know,' England says.

'You- you what?' Scotland is so surprised that his darkened expression clears up almost immediately. The other nations let out gasps of shock.

'England?' Canada calls out, his voice high pitched and horrified.

'Wait- what?' France chokes.

'Yeh... yeh believe me?' Scotland asks, still completely taken aback.

'N-not in the w... way you think,' England begins to say, but his shaking voice is quickly overshadowed by cries of disbelief and outrage.

'What are you doing, jerk?' Sealand demands, and the micronation's face is filled with anger that looks completely out of place for someone so young and generally carefree.

England tries to say something again but the other countries are all being so loud and their now frantic movements are unsettling. They all seem to be intent on getting England to explain himself, and yet they are leaving him no room to get any words in.

He's gone about it all wrong. In acknowledging Scotland's argument to some degree, as little as it may be, he hoped that this would satisfy his elder brother enough to calm down and listen. He thought he'd use everyone's momentary shock to his advantage because it would get them all to shut up for a few seconds, which would give him a chance to say exactly what he needs to. But he clearly underestimated how quickly the uproar would begin.

'P-please...' he tries, but he is abruptly cut off by his own panic. He's surrounded in a room with several angry people. Germany is attempting to restore order but it does little to calm England's frantically beating heart or his body growing cold in unease and fright.

One thing distracts him from his panic, however, one thing of ever growing concern.

_The door. It's not closed. America can hear this. America-_

He attempts to speak one more time but the words catch in his throat. America is standing in the doorway, staring right at him. His eyebrows are scrunched together in anguish and his eyes are shining with pain, the look of utmost betrayal on his face.

England hears a growl of fury from behind him, and the other nations all shut up in an instant at the sight of America. 'What the hell is he doing here?' Scotland spits. 'Yeh lot brought him along? Why the hell are yeh letting him walk around as he wishes? He's dangerous! For Christ's sake-'

America clenches his fists and spins around, disappearing from view immediately.

'America-' England calls out, feeling sick. Before he's even conscious of what he's doing, he's pushing past the other countries and racing after his former charge.

'England!' Scotland shouts after him, but he ignores his eldest brother.

All in an instant, England's terror is forgotten. His mind is still panicking, though not from fear of everyone around him. The only thing racing through his mind is that America is hurt, that he heard only part of the story, that he thinks he has been betrayed.

America is already heading straight for the ward doors, refusing to look back. England stumbles after him, his heart pounding violently and his limbs growing weak and numb with trepidation.

'Am... America...!'

England doesn't care who else might be following. All that matters is that he reaches America and... and what? What the hell is he supposed to do? Quickly explain it all when he can barely get his words out, especially around America himself?

This is sickening. It wasn't meant to go this way.

'Amer-rica!'

The bigger nation finally halts in the rather empty corridor after several twists and turns from the ward. He turns around and faces England slowly, lips pressed together very tightly. This is as far up as England dares to look. Managing to keep his eyes on America's face is difficult enough. He stops too and sways a little, rather dizzy from the nausea.

'If I run, I look guilty, don't I?' America says. His voice sounds empty.

England shudders. 'Y-you're not g... guilty. I k... know that.'

'That's not what you said back there.' There's a quiver in America's words. He sounds like he's barely holding back tears, and this mortifies England.

'I'm s... sorry. I j-just wanted Scotland to s... shut up,' he whispers. 'And for him and everyone else t-to know that th... there is a logical r-reason for why he thinks it w... was you. Which I w-would have explained i-if everyone hadn't interrupt-ted me.'

'What logical reason?' America growls. He sounds more hurt than anything. 'Oh yeah, that's right- he somehow heard my voice. How damn convenient. He already believes I had a hand in your disappearance, he knows you've been freaking out around me, so why the hell wouldn't he take the opportunity to pin it on me? He just had to tell everyone he heard my voice and blame it on a concussion if it backfired-'

'D-don't say that,' England retorts a little icily. He has no right to be angry but he won't allow it to be thought that Scotland would do something _that_ terrible. 'Scotland w-would never s... stoop to such a level. D-don't you ever say that again. Don't even th... think it. Understand?'

He knows that both America and Scotland would never jump to such terrible conclusions under normal circumstances. But these last few days have pushed almost everyone to the limit. England finds it rather agonising to think how much these terrible events have forced America to change. Of _course_ he's going to feel angry and betrayed and alone. Of course he's going to start assuming horrible things like that with the way he's being unjustly treated. And as for Scotland... well, there's a very good reason he has jumped to his conclusion, too. If only England can just get everyone to listen.

America clenches his fists and turns around, ready to carry on walking away and England acts on instinct, quickly throwing himself forwards and grabbing America's jacket to stop him.

'Am... America, p-please,' he begs, his stomach lurching and twisting horribly at the contact. But he initiated it. Instinctively and without thinking, yes, but he _chose_ to do it. He's in control.

At least, he is until America turns around and their eyes meet.

'England?' America asks, surprised that England has found the courage to reach out for him. 'Dude, it's probably better if I just go 'cause- England?!'

The older country's hand slips from America's jacket and his legs buckle underneath him. He's lost all feeling in his limbs as they stiffen in shock. Every part of him is falling, everything but his gaze; it's fixed directly on America's eyes.

America's _crimson_ eyes.

'No...' he tries to say, but his voice is gone. America seems to act automatically, grabbing England's shoulder's to stop him from falling backwards and slamming into the floor. England squeezes his eyes shut. _There. Out of sight, out of mind._ But he knows it won't change anything.

He feels his body being shifted towards his right before his back very gently comes into contact with the wall and he is lowered down until he is sitting on the ground. The grip on his shoulders disappears.

'Iggy? Are you, um...?'

'Hallucina... ting. Yes,' England replies hoarsely. _That's right,_ his mind whispers feebly. _Don't panic. That's all it is. A hallucination._

 _Run, run, run, run, run-_ another part of his brain screams. _Open your eyes! You can't protect yourself if you can't see! You'll die, you'll die, YOU'LL DIE-_

'I'm, uh, gonna go get someone, alright? I mean, we're in a hospital, so I'm sure quite a lot can be done to help-'

'N-no,' England gasps. 'Stay. Im... portant things... t-to say.'

'It's okay, man. We can talk later. Like you said, you wanted it to be in front of everyone, right?' All traces of anger in America's voice have disappeared. The only thing abnormal about the way he's talking now is how quiet and full of concern he sounds.

_America in the other world sounded like that too. At first._

'Say something... you w-would say,' England pleads.

'What do you mean?'

'Just... p-please...'

And then America chuckles, very lightly. It sounds nervous but genuine. 'Dude, you're on sitting on a hospital floor, totally freaking out, and you want me to talk in a certain way? Jeez, Iggy, I'll never understand what goes on inside your head.'

England manages a smile. _Perfect._

He opens his eyes slowly to find America crouching down in front of him, a couple of feet away. The younger nation clearly thinks giving him some space is a safer option, and England is grateful for it. And he's relieved, most importantly, for America's eyes. They're sky blue once again.

'I'm g-good,' England says. 'It's over.'

'You sure?'

'P... positive.'

America hesitates for a second, then grins. 'Sweet. I knew this wouldn't last. Hero's intuition, you could say.'

England gives a rather giddy laugh. 'D-definitely you.'

'Huh?'

'You're d-definitely you. Th... the real you. Ha ha.'

'Iggy?' America tilts his head and frowns. 'You _sure_ you're feeling better?'

And then England _giggles._ He can't help it. It just sort of slips out. 'Absolutely! M-much better. It is m... most certainly you. That's g-good. That's v... very good.'

'Who else would I be?'

'Other you. He's v-very different. N-not like you at all, in f... fact. J-just looks like you. Th... that's the problem.'

'Other me?' America echoes.

England nods. 'Mm hmm. In the other world. Parallel.'

And then America's eyes widen. 'Parallel? It's a parallel world? Like... identical?'

England can feel his eyelids fluttering. His chest feels rather light while his head is heavy, and any sound he can hear is growing muffled. He's passing out, he can tell. He suspects another memory is coming. But it's happening slowly. He has a few more moments of consciousness and he has to use them.

'Im... portant. Very important,' he says, his words slurred. 'Other America. Bad version. He p-pushed Scotland. ''S'why Sc-Scotland thinks it's... you. Got through a reflection... somehow. Framed y-you. His fault. N-not yours.'

America's eyes (blue eyes, _thank God)_ are open wide in shock and he looks ever so slightly... hopeful? 'You... you sure, dude?'

'Other you is b-bad. They all are. I th... think. They t-took me.' England, although firmly planted on the floor with his back to the wall, still manages to sway forwards. America reaches out and presses his hands against England's shoulders, stopping him from forwards. England jumps with what little energy he has left and lets out a very low whimper.

'Sorry, Iggy,' America says quietly.

''S'okay,' England mumbles. 'Not your f... fault. Jus' his. 'Cause you look like him. But y-you're _not_ like him. He's bad. You're n-not.'

America's bottom lip is trembling. 'But... if this guy is me from another world, shouldn't he be the same as me? How can he be bad if I'm not? If we're parallel, we should be identical...?'

'No!' England says as forcefully as he can. He can't bear the thought. 'N-nothing like him. Please d-don't... don't ever b... be like him.' He doesn't mean to say that part out loud. It's a verbalised plea inside his head, not specifically to America but more to the universe itself. _Please don't let America ever be like him. Please don't let them be alike. Please let me see America without seeing_ him. _Please, please, please._

_Please, let me look at him without fear._

Resisting the urge to close his eyes in a feeble attempt to somehow make it easier, England leans forwards, partially with his own strength and partially because he's no longer able to sit up straight anyway. Just like with Ireland in the park, he presses his body against America's chest and wraps his arms around the bigger nation to clutch the back of his jacket.

'England?' America says, a note of panic in his voice. 'Are you sure this is a good idea? I mean, we, uh, both know you don't do too well with hugs and being near me and right now you're kinda doing both and-'

''S'okay,' England says, ignoring the twisting nerves in his stomach and the world blurring around him as he keeps himself firmly planted where he is. ''M'fine.'

'Iggy, it's fine. I don't mind. You don't have to do this.'

'Want to. W-want to be o... okay. Need t-to show you... I'm okay. Show you... ''s'not your fault.'

After a few seconds, he feels America's arms close around his own body. He's too tired to cry out or panic, and even if he had the energy he would do everything in his power not to. Because all that matters as his consciousness slips away is that yes, he is scared, but he can fight it. He _will._

 _Because this is America._ My _America, from this world. It's the most important thing I have to remember when all those memories come back. I_ must _remember._

_I have to be brave._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, the temptation to write 'let me be brave' was too real. I finished writing this chapter just before the Doctor Who Christmas special and I've spent the majority of the day finishing off some Doctor Who fanart, so the tv show has been on my mind (well tbh, it always is XD). I finally posted the pic on my Tumblr. I have spent all of Christmas day hard at work on it. Between the fanart and this chapter, I am well and truly knackered. I shall just sleep for like four days now. Plz. Plz just let me XD
> 
> Does that count as actual USUK now? *Negan voice* Cuz boy do I have a feeling we're getting close (oh jeez. I need to go outside). The slowest slow burn to ever slow burn. Seriously. It's so slow it's almost going backwards. Of course, I'm not going to just shove a full on romantic relationship in with the current dynamics, that would be stupid. England is currently scared shitless of America, even though he knows exactly why, and that he shouldn't be. I've mainly just played around with how obvious it is that they care about each other.
> 
> And of course, I don't want to write some bullshit where the romance magically makes the damage go away. That's not how mental illness works. He won't just recover, especially with America himself being a large source of England's fear. England has severe PTSD and he's never going to be the way he once was. But I want to stress that he'll learn to find ways to cope with it. Given that the nations have all fought in wars and lost so much and have all been damaged mentally and physically during their long lives, they likely have their own individual ways of coping with these things. It just so happens that this particular thing is fresh and different from the usual damage, and the torment isn't even over yet, as the 2Ps haven't finished with England.
> 
> Woo. Congrats if you managed to read the long depressing stuff above. And on Christmas of all days. I'm unbelievable.
> 
> I apologise for angry characters in this chapter. America is at his limit. Scotland is concerned and, yeah, scared. You would be too. I know it's not fair on America but Scotland genuinely believes America tried to kill him. And he has a good reason to think so. His behaviour should be excused to some degree on account of that.
> 
> Okie dokie, well I'm gonna just go and take the dark cloud of gloom with me. Remember to review!
> 
> Toodles!


	18. Leaving Traces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long af update from a tired af author. I should sleep. Probably.
> 
> So this chapter would have been even longer, but I had to cut it. Unfortunately, the cut means a cliffhanger, so just bear with me on that one XD. Luckily for you, I decided on the cut only after I'd written quite a bit of what will now be in the next chapter, so it probably won't take too long to finish said chapter. Plus there's quite a lot of content that I wrote back in August involving a conversation between England and the fae that I originally intended to be in chapter 15 the scene where England is contemplating wiping his memories/opening the gateway between the two worlds. This conversation will instead be between England and the other countries, probably in the next chapter.
> 
> Speaking of chapter 15, I have included a song again like I did back then. It wasn't originally intended- I was just sort of listening to it while I was writing and the line 'and the wolves all howl' suddenly sort of struck me. And now it's wormed its way into this chapter XD. Or parts of the song have, anyway. I didn't include all the lyrics. The song is Revelations by Zack Hemsey.
> 
> Warnings: you should probably have learnt this off by heart by now. I'll give you a clue, the main word of focus here begins with A, ends with T, and has N, G and S in the middle. Some violence too, with mentions of gore. And, like I said, cliffhanger. Sorry XD.
> 
> Allons-y!

_He twitches nervously as the sickly sweet smell reaches his nose once again. Opening his eyes, his eyes dart around his darkened surroundings. He must have been unconscious for a while, for it is night time._

_He's on the street again, but this time he is alone. The smell is drifting from the building to his left- but there are so many others too. All of a sudden, the world is alight with scents, some familiar and others not. The ones he recognises are stronger and fresher than ever and even the ones he doesn't know are powerful, like all the scents have been heightened._

_He feels crushed in a way. Small and in pain. His chest is burning from all the open wounds. The blood is coating his body. But he is free._

_'Time to play the next game,' says a voice, but it isn't a shock. He senses its source before he hears it. He can hear the movement, each and every sound; the quiet footsteps, the near-silent intake of breath. He turns his head slightly and stares off into the gloom. They air is freezing and misty, but he can see the wide blue eyes, shining like a lightning flash in the darkness._

_'This one is going to be a bit more... interactive on your part,' says another voice as another figure joins the first one. This one's eyes shine too, though with a very different shade- a burning crimson._

_He doesn't want to play a game. He wants to be safe._

_Blue Eyes lets out a giggle. 'You'll have a little more control. Which is scarier. Because if you slip up, it will all be gone. You'll lose everything.'_

_He struggles to his feet. The world blurs in grainy silvers. He feels sick._

_Red Eyes laughs. 'I'd start running if I were you. As fast as you damn well can.'_

_That's when he finally catches their scent; not too close, but not far away enough, either; warm gushing blood, sickly sweet flesh-_

_He can hear them too; snapping their jaws, grinding their teeth, licking their lips. They've caught a scent._ His _scent. And he's completely exposed, out in the open._

_'Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run,' Blue Eyes coos._

_'Ready or not, here they come,' Red Eyes announces._

_He's kicking off and throwing himself forwards before they even start laughing._

* * *

When the sun fades out  
And the blackness shrouds  
And the wolves all howl  
And the stones fall loud  
When the fear is found  
And nightmares hound  
Will you drown in the plague that surrounds?

_He tears through the night, and the wolves follow close behind._

_Something new has awoken inside him, or perhaps he has awoken_ in _something new. He can't explain it, and it isn't honestly something he fully contemplates, anyway. In fact, his thoughts aren't exactly... conventional. The things he registers in his head aren't composed of words, but flashing images and a primal pulling; a_ longing, _almost. It spins through his brain like energy, in control and without the complications of literate thoughts._

_It's instinct. Nothing more, nothing less. No contemplations, no imagination, no wishes. Just the animal in head head forcing his legs to keep running._

_It feels almost natural. Perhaps it should do, but not quite._

_He senses a tremor in the ground as the wolves begin gaining on him and he can hear the low growling. His head is immediately filled with a vibrant and dangerous array of panicked flashes which send his body tumbling forwards even faster in fear. He's smaller than they are. He has that advantage at least, but where can he hide? The world is so large and desolate and cold. There is no safe, warm home waiting for him. There is only the chase, and every bone in his body somehow the wolves will only let the chase end one way._

_They are the predators, and he is no one but the prey. Just fresh meat._

(…)

_The snap of a wolf only a few feet away sends him scuttling for cover under a garden gate. The wolves will leap over it, of course. This isn't safe, because now he is trapped in a far more secluded area. But it's too late. He races down an alley by the side of the house and into the back garden. Between this plot of land and the ones on either side belonging to the other houses, there are short fences, easy enough to squeeze through. Also easy enough for the wolves to jump over. He'll have to find somewhere better to hide._

_As he pushes his way between the wooden posts of the fence, he feels a shiver of unease sweep over him, and this isn't just as basic as all his other instincts. Something is picking at his brain; a nagging sensation at the back of his head. Something more than a primal pulling, something more comprehensible._

_A thought._

(… How...?)

_He's racing across this new garden and into the one after that through another fence. Like the last one it's very narrow, with the bottom of each wooden post curving in to form a sharp triangular end. This is what gives him that small amount of room to squeeze through; less than half a square foot of space, in fact._

(… How?)

_It's small. He is smaller._

(No.)

_The next garden he comes across has a pond. He almost falls into it in his haste, but quickly manages to avert this and skirt around the edge instead. He catches a glimpse of his reflection as he races past._

(No. Not me.)

_So small. An easy target for the wolves._

(Not me. I'm not this. I am...)

_He can hear the thudding in the earth behind him as the wolves land on the ground from leaping over the fences behind him. All traces of thought disappear from his head in his panic._

* * *

Run, rabbit, run, rabbit, run run run...

_The words echo inside his head. But there shouldn't be words in his head. He shouldn't be thinking, at least not in the way people do._

(I am...)

_No one. Just the prey._

_He eventually manages to evade the immediate approach of the wolves. They're still invested in the chase, but after enough squeezing through small spaces and finding enough little temporary places to hide, he has escaped their clutches. For now._

_They still have his scent though, and he can't leave traces of himself. He needs them to lose it if he is to make it out alive._

_The world has turned to ash around him as he progresses on, heading deeper into the heart of this broken civilisation. The ash itself might help if he gets smeared in enough of it, but water will work the best to cover his scent._

_There are large mounds all around him of what used to be buildings, all burnt away to blackened debris. Some are massive, still standing in places and towering above him. They are all completely silent. The whole world is, save for the wolves barking in the distance and what sounds like it might be a body of water moving. A river, perhaps?_

_He comes across one building on its side, massive sections of its walls having caved in on themselves. It would have been tall and narrow in its former glory. Parts of it have come crashing down on what was once a stretch of land between one side of the river and the other. But the bridge has crumbled into the river under the weight of the fallen tower._

_He approaches it slowly, his limbs aching from all the running. The fallen bridge has provided a ramp of sorts into the river, and if he wants to shake the wolves off this is probably a good solution. But the river is wide, much more than just a forest stream, and the current looks strong. If he's not careful, he could drown._

(Again.)

_He halts and his senses sharpen. This is..._

(… familiar.)

_He catches a glimpse of his reflection again as he scuttles down the ramp and reaches the part where it meets the water. His own large, alert eyes look right back at him, his ears pricked back in fear. So small. So weak._

(Not me. Only what they made me.)

_He turns his head slightly, glancing at the main body of the battered, fallen tower, only a few feet away from him. He can just make out a smashed up large, circular plate towards the very end of what would have once been the top of the tower. It's coated in ash but he can just make out the inscribing around the edges of the circle, twelve points._

(A clock, _says a voice in his head. But there shouldn't_ be _words in his head._ A clock tower. B...)

_A howl close by tears his thoughts away from the fallen building. The wolves have caught up. It's now or never._

_He leaps into the river and feels the cold sweeping through his fur, digging into his skin, crushing and burning his wounds-_

(No no no no no, I don't want this, I don't want to drown again, please don't let it happen again, I just want to go home, I can't last any longer here, please please _please-)_

 _He's been here before, hasn't he? He's starting to remember. This isn't right, the way he is now. This isn't who, this isn't_ what _he is._

 _The current is dragging him under and far away. He catches one last glimpse of the tower with the circular plate, the_ clock.

_The Elizabeth Tower. The clock tower of Big Ben. London. England._

(England. That's me. That's who I am, what I really am.)

_Why has he forgotten? And what is he now?_

_Never mind that. All that matters is keeping his head above water. But he's too small. The animal instincts inside him are flashing in panic. He struggles to breathe but all he inhales is water._

_(He remembers the last time he was in these waters, being pulled under by that ominous glow, just able to make out the bright lights of the fireworks above him before his world dissolved around him and he lost consciousness as he was pulled into this world-)_

_BREATHE, screams the animal in his head, but not as an actual word, just a desperate urge. That's all he is now. Small, no one, no words, no name, nothing._

(England-)

_He's not England anymore. He is merely the prey._

_And now, as the world grows darker and darker around him, he really is nothing._

But I am not afraid _  
_ And I won't die today __  
So pull me under  
I fear no thunder

* * *

When England's eyes close, America begins to panic.

He wasn't actually expecting England to pass out. Sure, there was a certain urgency to England's words only a few seconds ago, a desperate need to tell America all of this. America supposes that England must have felt his consciousness slipping away and had made a final attempt to say what he needed to say. And now he's here, unconscious and laying against America's chest, completely limp.

'Iggy- oh God. Iggy, dude, you gotta wake up!'

But England doesn't respond. He doesn't even stir a little.

'England,' America pleads. 'Come on, man. Please, how am I supposed to know if you're okay or not?' Memories of England passing out in front of him yesterday flash through his mind and a terrible thought occurs to him.

England's supposed to be regaining his memories in his dreams, according to the elder British Isles. What if he's having some horrific flashback right now of whatever terrible things happened to him in the other world? Because, as little as England has said, it must have been terrible, if it was able to do all of _this_ to him. What if he's trapped in his own mind right now, unable to escape his own memories... memories somehow involving another America...

America shivers and is about to call England's name again when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He jumps a little in surprise and turns his head quickly to the side to see a figure standing beside him.

'Don't worry yerself, lad,' Ireland says. 'The best we can do right now is find somewhere comfortable for him to lie and wait for him to wake up.'

Canada is here too, standing just behind Ireland. He takes a step forward and bends down to place a hand on England's forehead, searching for a temperature.

America takes a deep shuddering breath. 'How long have you both been here...?'

'A couple of minutes,' Canada replies, looking relieved. England's forehead clearly isn't too hot. 'We arrived as England was saying something about being glad that you're really you.'

'Didn't want to interfere,' Ireland says gruffly. 'I'm not exactly someone he particularly wants to see. If anything, my presence tends to upset him even more, generally. When it comes to England and I, it's best if I only step in when it's extremely necessary. That's how I handled it in the park this morning. I showed myself only when I was certain his life was in danger.'

'Danger?' America and Canada exclaim in unison, both unaware of this.

Ireland sighs. 'I'll explain it with everyone else later. If England lets me. The point it, I didn't want to show myself straight away. He was having a chat with the fae about ways to fix all of this, and I didn't want to eavesdrop but I knew the likelihood of him saying all that whilst knowin' I was there was very slim. I didn't have to wait long, anyway. He was pretty desperate this morning. Willing to go very far. I had to stop him.'

'Besides,' Canada adds. 'We both wanted to give you the chance to straighten things out with England. A couple more minutes and some space to resolve as much as you could. I'm glad England managed to talk to you like that. You've got to be feeling a bit better about it now, eh?'

America tries to agree but his throat catches. He can feel a lump in it and he only just realises how emotional this has actually made him. 'Yeah,' he manages to croak. 'But... you heard what he was saying, right? About the other world?'

Canada nods, looking uncertain. 'Yeah, but I don't... I don't really get it. Was he actually... in another world?'

Of course. Canada hasn't been told yet, like most of the other countries. The only people who know aside from England himself are America and Sealand, and possibly Ireland too. The jury's out on that one. America looks up at the older nation, searching for signs of shock.

'He was talking to the fae 'bout it,' Ireland says. 'Like I said to him this morning, it seems crazy, but it also makes sense. And I wasn't just humouring him or anything.'

'So you really do believe him?' America asks.

'Yeah, I do.'

'Good. How did you find us? I, uh... took quite a few turns when I was... leaving.'

'Almost everyone left to look for you guys,' Canada says. 'We all went in small groups and in different directions so we'd have a better chance of finding you.'

'Wouldn't have wanted to stay in the damn ward, anyway,' Ireland mutters. 'What with Scotland's damn hysterical ranting and all. Bloody mental. Woulda gotten outta bed to search for England himself if Wales hadn't stopped him.'

'Well, he probably thought I would try and kill England or something,' America murmurs, but it doesn't come out as bitterly as he meant it to. He remembers what England said.

_Other you. Very different. In the other world._

'Lucky for yeh, yeh've got witnesses,' Ireland says with a joking smile. 'Bet yeh must have been panicking somethin' awful 'bout what everyone might make of this when England passed out.'

A very small frown appears on America's face. 'Sure,' he replies a little numbly, but strangely enough the thought never actually occurred to him. Of course now, upon it having been mentioned, it seems logical to have stressed out over it, but the only thing on America's mind when England collapsed was... well, _England_. Not once did America even contemplate how this would look to everyone else. The only thoughts running through his head were if England was okay.

Canada gives a faint smile at the rather lost look on his brother's face. 'Let's find somewhere for England to rest, okay? And we'll tell everyone that it's all fine.'

America comes out of his slight daze. 'Yeah,' he murmurs. 'But, like... do we get someone? A nurse or a doctor? We can't exactly carry him through the hospital like this.'

Ireland pinches the bridge of his nose, a big frown appearing on his face. 'On the one hand... they're probably the best people do handle this sort of thing. But they won't understand it. Not properly. If he wakes up and freaks out because he's hallucinating, or mentions the other world or magic or anything like that, they'll put him in a psychiatric ward.'

'Maybe that's what he needs,' Canada says quietly.

'What? No! We can't let them lock Iggy up!' America protests. 'He's not crazy! He really _was_ in another world and everything he says about magic is real!'

'You misunderstand me, America,' Canada says soothingly. 'Yes, magic and other worlds clearly are real. England isn't delusional about that part, at least. But he's ill. I'm not saying he's crazy, far from it. He's obviously been through something extremely traumatic, which is why he's in this state. That doesn't make him insane, that just means he's damaged. And there are people, professionals, who are equipped to handle PTSD.'

'But what about us, though?' America says faintly. 'Aren't... aren't we the best to deal with this? We're nations. We've all... seen and been through and done some bad stuff. Wouldn't we get it... better than the humans would?'

'I think yer brother may be right,' Ireland replies, before turning to Canada. 'This is different from anything we've encountered. I'm not saying it's worse, or better for that matter, but it's... jus' different. Something I don't think any of us have any experience in. A different kinda pain. Not something to do with our people, just something being felt directly by the nation themselves. Five years of it. Whatever it was.'

America turns back to England, still very much limp in his embrace. He shifts England's body slightly, laying him out in his arms in a more horizontal position. From this angle, he can see England's face. Up close like this, he can see how ill England really does look. There are dark shadows under his eyes and his face is thinner than ever before. Under his eyelids, his eyes appear to be moving around rather frantically. Whatever kind of dream he's having, it's making him restless even in his unconscious state.

'We'll decide what the next move should be along with the others,' Ireland continues. 'There ain't any use in grovelling here. We'll take him back to Scotland's room and flash out IDs at anyone who tries to stop us. Scotland's got a whole damn room to himself, so we've got privacy and plenty of spare beds to choose from for England.'

America nods and slides one arm underneath England's legs while the other supports England's back. He gets slowly to his feet, keeping England firmly balanced in his arms. He's always been known for his amount of physical strength and England isn't exactly heavy, especially given that he's even thinner than usual. What America is most concerned about is the very slight vibrations running through England's body. He's shivering, but he can't possibly still be cold from this morning. Which of course raises another worrying point- the fact that when conscious, England's stuttering is still present.

'Yeh sure yeh want to carry him?' Ireland asks. 'I could do it.'

'So could I,' Canada volunteers.

For the first time since England passed out, America finds himself hoping that the smaller nation _doesn't_ wake up just yet. He doesn't want to see England panic in his arms and end up falling, or to have to simply look into his former caretaker's face and see so much fear in the eyes looking straight back at him. Maybe it would be safer for Ireland or Canada to take him instead. But America doesn't make a single move to hand England over to either of them. He simply clutches England a little tighter and sends the other two his usual sharp-toothed grin. 'Nah, I've got him. This is a job for a hero, after all.'

Canada lets out a little snort of laughter and shoots his brother an exasperated yet fond look, while Ireland rolls his eyes. 'Whatever yeh say, yank. Let's go.'

* * *

Sealand is hyperactive at the best of times, and is openly enraged at being instructed by Wales not to leave the room. It's rather difficult to pinpoint exactly who Sealand is angrier at- Wales or England. Wales has ordered his temporary confinement, sure, but- as Sealand keeps muttering under his breath- it's 'idiot, dummy, jerk England' who shouldn't have said such a 'stupid, wrong thing'. Honestly, the micronation looks quite betrayed, and Scotland understands why. Sealand is very fond of America and seems to have recently put quite a bit of trust in England. England's words from before haven't just hurt America, they've clearly affected Sealand too.

The thing is, Wales seems one hundred percent certain that England has been misunderstood. There's no way he would agree with condemning America- his loyalty to the younger nation runs too deeply for that. England's always had a soft spot for America, even now, while he's scared to death of him. From his actions so far and his refusal to accept what Scotland is declaring, there's no way England does believe it now.

'… we really must insist that we take a look at him and make sure that he's alright. Hospital protocol-'

'Honestly, ma'am, it's fine. He just hasn't been getting enough sleep lately and he nodded off. Don't really want to wake him 'cause he'll be totally grouchy. Right, Mattie?'

'Huh? Oh, yes. Absolutely.'

Scotland's eyes dart toward the door in shock, immediately on high alert. It's definitely America's voice on the other side. Several emotions run through him all at once- mostly fury and an exceeding amount of fear. Not just for himself or the others in the vicinity, but very much for England. The younger Brit followed America out the room about fifteen minutes ago, and now America is back. But where is England?

Wales shoots his eldest brother a warning look. He has been rather agitated these past few minutes, clearly desperate to join the search for England and America. But, due to the fact that he is probably the only one who could control Scotland, even more so than Ireland, he accepted his role of keeping Scotland from attempting to get up and has been pacing around the room since, barking out warnings every time Scotland shows signs of wanting to leave his bed.

The elder Brit has never seen Wales so restless before, but then he himself isn't exactly calm right now. Realistically, he knows deep down that even though he would physically be able to push himself out of bed, the agony would incapacitate him immediately and the broken limbs would prevent him from getting anywhere at all. This doesn't stop him from twisting with all the energy he does have, mostly instinctively. It sends shocks of agony through his body, but he can't help it.

Ireland pokes his head around the door while America and Canada are dealing with the nurse. 'It's all good. England passed out again, but he hasn't ended up getting hurt or anything.'

'Get America away from him!' Scotland hisses.

'You shut your jerk face!' Sealand says suddenly, his eyes glistening with angry tears. Scotland stares at him.

'Let's just all... calm down, alright?' Wales murmurs feebly. He looks absolutely exhausted. That flame inside him from earlier when England returned has all but been extinguished.

America steps into the room and Scotland's stomach twists horribly at the sight; just as Ireland said, England is unconscious, eyes sealed shut and his body limp, with his arms and legs dangling. What Ireland failed to mention, however, is that America is the one _carrying_ England.

Scotland can feel his own body shaking slightly, which is unfortunate as it hurts quite a lot. He ignores it and fixes his gaze on America's face, silently begging that everyone else is right and that he has been mistaken about all of this. It would be so, so much easier if Scotland were wrong about all of this. He keeps praying that he is. The other countries haven't quite grasped this, though he isn't surprised. He keeps these thoughts completely private, after all. He doesn't want anyone to think that he has doubts, or rather, that he _wishes_ he had doubts.

Scotland doesn't hate America. They're all wrong about that. The two have had their disagreements about England, but Scotland knows that America's heart is in the right place. At least, he did know that. Up until yesterday.

Scotland has secretly been praying and praying for the last twenty-four hours that he really is wrong about what happened yesterday. Because America is a cheerful, outgoing and light-hearted individual who has aspirations of being a 'hero'. It shouldn't be possible for someone like that to do something so evil.

Oh, how Scotland _wishes_ this was all down to his head injury. If only it were that simple. It would be embarrassing and a big apology to America would be due, but it would be so much more preferable than _this_. The truth.

Because Scotland knows that it was America's voice. Those three, distinct words ring in his head constantly, reminding him of how he can't hope and pretend he got it wrong.

_You hurt England._

It still doesn't make any sense. None of it does. Scotland wants to go back to yesterday and avoid what happened somehow. Choose some other room. Or simply pay better attention to what was happening around him. Because then he wouldn't be here, his body shattered, utterly defenceless, unable to help anyone, at the mercy of whoever might want to finish him off, be it America or whoever else is responsible for all of this.

America takes England over to a spare bed opposite Scotland's. Sealand leaps off his chair and rushes over to America instantly, questions practically spilling out of him, though he keeps his voice down. Canada follows through into the room, his phone in his hand.

'We should call the others to come back here,' he says, and Wales nods.

Scotland's eyes are still fixed on America's face. He can see no malice or cruelty in the younger nation's expression. America doesn't once look at him, probably reluctant to face Scotland's accusatory glare. Or perhaps it's simply because he's far too occupied with England. Concern is written so openly over America's face, and Scotland privately wishes so desperately to believe it.

But he doesn't let his thoughts show. He remembers the voice from yesterday and his glare remains as icy as ever. America needs to step away from both England and Sealand _right now._

America stays exactly where he is, his eyes never leaving England's face.

* * *

_There's no glow this time. No gateway to the other side. No way out._

_Without consciousness, things are becoming a lot clearer now. He knows who he is and he remembers what happened._

_The next game. The game Blue Eyes- Other England- had planned out. They had dragged him away, bloodied and weak, to his cell once more so they could prepare it. He was in there for almost three weeks, barely able to stay conscious for any of it. The progressive drop in temperature and the terrible wounds had taken a heavy toll on his body. Despite being a nation, he should have died. But his wounds were treated, to a degree. He had no idea who did it, whether it was Other America or Other England, but someone had bandaged up the worst of it during his first bout of unconsciousness, and continued to replace the bandages whenever he was out cold for a long period of time._

_The food changed too. It was all actual food this time. Generally pieces of fruit or bits of bread, and always accompanied by a glass of water. The water was the biggest relief, of course. After that whole month without hydration, England prioritised it, naturally._

_He never caught a glimpse of the two other nations, and he certainly wasn't stupid enough to mistake any of this for compassion. They needed him alive. If they continued dehydrating him, offered him only poisoned food and administered no medical treatment, he would have died._

_Perhaps two months ago, England would have stubbornly refused the food they gave him. The person he was before the month of isolation and the hours of torture would have been too proud to give in. Now, England just took the food. He couldn't bear anymore pain. He_ wouldn't _. In some way or another, something inside him had broken. And it should have mattered to him, this cowardice, this fear in the face of agony, but it didn't. Fear won in the end._

_One day, something about his food was different. He couldn't tell at first, for Other England had masked the smell well this time. It was only when he took a bit of an apple did he notice the sickly sweet taste in his mouth, already running down his throat. There was more than just juice inside the apple, just like there was more than just icing on those cupcakes he'd been given before. He hadn't eaten anymore upon realising something was wrong, but the damage was already done._

_A poisoned apple. How poetic. Something had told him that Other England probably enjoyed the thought and execution of that quite a lot._

_After all those hours strapped to that table with Other America cutting into him, England found the pain fairly bearable. The poison incapacitated him fairly successfully, leaving his body pressed against the floor and unable to move, like something extremely heavy was weighing down on his stomach. But the pain itself wasn't really an issue. Only its effects._

_Once he was subdued, they came for him and took him to a pitch black room. There had been something rather familiar in the centre: a pentagram, scrawled on the floor in red ochre. England remembered years of using black magic for all sorts of little experiments. But he could do nothing for himself at that moment. They were completely in control. And even if he could have moved, he's not sure now that he would have. There would have been no point. There was no point to anything._

_He heard its terrified squeals before he saw it; the small creature was brought in by Other America in a cage, fur on end and ears pricked back, and though it was very much alive its eyes were already glassy with absolute fear. From his spot where they had laid him in the centre of the pentagram, England had managed to turn his head slightly and glance dully at it. He had felt nothing._

_It could scream as much as it wanted to in the beginning, but eventually, like him, it would have no energy left._

_Other America had pulled out one of his knives: the prettiest of the bunch, the long, handsome one with the green hilt. It was England's favourite and most hated one at the same time when he was on the table; it hurt a lot at first, but the tip of the blade was so thin that after a while he had barely felt a thing when Other America had painted crimson pictures on his chest. That had been some kind of mercy. He enjoyed that part more than any other bit. But the blade could cut deep. Very deep. It did the most damage of all the knives. The most gentle and the most lethal, slipping through his flesh like a ghost and leaving a canvass of blood in its wake._

_Other America had taken the rabbit out of the cage by the scruff of the neck. The little animal had twisted a little at first, still making horrified squeaking noises. The knife was drawn very lightly down its side, slicing around one of its back legs and cutting into its belly a little. The creature's shrieks grew louder with the process, then faded away as it ended. The wound was light, very light, not enough to kill or even seriously wound the rabbit. But if the blood continued to flow without anything stopping it, it wouldn't end well for the little creature._

_The rabbit was placed beside England inside the pentagram. They lay facing each other. England could see the rabbit's chest rise and fall with laboured breathing. It stared straight past him with its glassy eyes, having gone into shock and unable to move. And even if it could have, would it have done so? Or was it just like him, knowing in its own little way that there was no point?_

_His hand lay close to the little creature, so close that he could run his fingers through its fur if he wanted to. He used to do that when he was little. He liked rabbits a lot as a child._

_The had been words spoken nearby, though they were distant and distorted, like most of the sounds England heard now. Somewhere in all the pain, he had stopped processing sound properly. But it hadn't bothered him. Nothing could. He had been numb, numb to everything._

_The ground in the circle beneath he and the rabbit had begun to glow brightly, and England had closed his eyes. Then there was one more burst of pain, new and different, like something inside his chest was being physically ripped out, then-_

_\- then he had woken up on that street, not remembering who he was, somehow trapped in the little creature's body. And Other America and Other England had set the wolves on him._

* * *

And I choose to stand _  
_ Though I'm bruised and branded __  
I refuse the noose that I'm handed  
My eulogy will read:  
'To Hell he's been and sipped their scorched gin with a sinful grin'

_His eyes fly open, and his revelation doesn't fade away this time. The animal instincts have been subdued. England is in control._

_His head is miraculously above water, which certainly helps. He kicks off as hard as he can, trying to get to the side of the river and find somewhere low enough for him to climb out. But there's nothing in sight, nothing at all-_

_There! A set of stone steps leading down into the river, old and damp. Not too far away. He might just be able to reach it before the current drags him past it._

_He slams into the steps quite forcefully, his vision blurring with pain. The wounds that were used to paralyse the rabbit for the ritual must be flowing with blood in the open water, and they're not going to get any better if he keeps wounding himself further._

_Scraping desperately at the stone, he manages to heave himself up onto the steps, finally out of the water's icy reach. But he is drenched and still freezing. One consolation is that the biting cold has numbed the pain in his side. He doesn't even want to look down at the wound; he just wants to rest here and let the exhaustion take control, just for a little while..._

_A wolf's howl erupts from somewhere, above him and surely many streets away. Despite the probable distance, the rabbit's soul flares to life in alarm, its instincts taking control of the body once more and pushing England backwards before he can stop it-_

_And now he is pushing himself to his shaky feet, despite the exhaustion and the pain that is sure to return presently. In his blind panic, he throws himself up the steps, desperate to get as far away as possible._

_(At the back of the rabbit's mind, England struggles for control, but the rabbit's soul won't shift. The fear induced by the howling is too strong, too strong to leave any space for rational thought, or even any thoughts at all for that matter. Of the two souls trapped in this body, only one can take charge at any one time, and right now England doesn't have a chance.)_

_He can hear the clicking off the wolves' claws hitting the concrete, still at a relatively safe distance, yet drawing closer by the second. He ducks under a low bar on a railing and pelts across a road, heading for some bushes on the other side. They will offer shadows and therefore concealment, but not for long. If the wolves do come this way, they will pick up his scent again. He burrows his way under the bushes, squeezing his way through the small branches. He finally stops again, crouching low and staying very still. He won't be able to run when he needs to if he's completely exhausted, so he can wait here a little while. The wolves may not find him here if they don't catch his scent._

_(If. England doesn't want to take this risk. He should have stayed on those steps by the river. If the wolves had come for him there, he could have leapt back in the river to escape. He would rather drown than be torn apart.)_

_He stays exactly where he is, because instinct is in control, not thoughts._

_(The rabbit, not England.)_

_He's so tired that he almost falls asleep right here, but the constant fear pricking at his senses keeps him conscious. The wolves might reach this area soon, and he has to be alert if and when they do._

_(England wonders what's happened to his real body. Is it still lying in the pentagram, exactly where he left it when his soul was ripped out? Will Other America start a new session, regardless of whether or not England's truly in there or not? Perhaps this is for the best. He won't be there for the torture anymore. He won't feel the blades this way.)_

_But he_ will _feel the wolves' teeth._

_His instincts scream to run and he begins shaking badly as he finally catches sight of a wolf, about thirty feet away, coming out from behind a building and lifting its snout in the air. His ears prick back and his legs twitch with nerves, but he keeps himself low down and as still as possible._

_The wolf is drawing closer, and more follow behind it. He can see five, perhaps six. He can hear others coming, too. This is too much. His body is itching to spring into action, to get him as far away as possible. But he mustn't. They'll spot him if he does._

_There's a wolf ten feet away. It has its nuzzle pressed to the ground, searching. It's very still, one ear twitching. It's caught a scent._

_He resists the urge to back away when it steps forward, heading straight for the bushes. If he moves now, it will likely catch him. He's trapped. There is just a small chance that it might not be able to find him; he's dug himself quite deep into the undergrowth, almost hidden completely from sight. His scent, although present, is faint from both the water and all the ash. He might just survive this-_

_The wolf's amber eyes lock with his. It can see him. A moment passes, agonisingly slow. It may only be a heartbeat, or perhaps a hundred._

_(All the rabbit's soul can do is stare, as paralysed it was when Other America cut into its flesh with the knife. England can't do anything either. He'd fight for control of the body if he could, but he is frozen too.)_

_Then, it all happens at once._

_The wolf bares its teeth and lets out a snarl, and he jumps into action, turning on the spot and diving through the undergrowth. It's the only option he has now, the only chance he'll ever have. He emerges from the bushes, quickly racing across the open ground. He has to get as far away as fast as he can, before-_

_Another wolf is suddenly in front of him, mouth open wide. He has no way of stopping himself in time as he is in mid leap. With no control of his own fate, he end up in the jaws of the wolf, and its teeth clamp down on his flesh. He flails desperately, twisting violently in its grasp, but it's hopeless-_

_(Flashes of searing hot, white pain spread through this new vessel of England's, somehow worse than the blades were on his real body. His mind grew accustomed to the pain, and his body became numb to it too. But in this new body, only scarred by a shallow knife wound from earlier, it hurts terribly. Especially as the rabbit's soul is the one in control, and it does not take well to pain-)_

_The wolf's fangs are sinking very deep-_

_(England wants to scream-)_

_But it is the rabbit who shrieks, a horrifying screeching noise-_

_(England is going to die. Not slowly or gently, like in the cell. There will be no peace. He is going to be torn apart-)_

_Underneath his fur and skin, he feels his bones crunch-_

Though worthless lives are worth less lives  
My words revive and cry loud for the certain sign

_(In spite of the blind agony, England manages to find words. A desperate plea. Something that is so powerful that in this moment as the end draws close, the rabbits soul gives in and fades and England takes charge-)_

_All rationality has gone. Despite the fact that this will do nothing for him, England screams for them-_

_America, France, Canada, Japan, his brothers, anyone and everyone. They're not words he'll ever be able to utter, not words that will ever be heard, not words that will ever save him. But words nonetheless-_

HELP ME. PLEASE. PLEASE, SOMEONE. I'M SCARED. IT HURTS. HELP. PLEASE.

_His breath, his body, his vision, everything is being crushed-_

PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP ME.

_Everything is ending, his life is slipping away in a blur of white teeth, hot flesh and a red stained world spinning into darkness-_

SOMEONE, PL-

'Til end of days sound and the earth is dry  
Know this is a farewell but it's not goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, sorry again. There would have been more, but I still haven't finished the entirety of the next scene and I feel that you guys deserve an update ASAP, so here we are. I threw in a little more suggestive USUK from America's perspective, if there's any consolation there. When America was carrying England, I tried not to fall to one of the biggest clichés I've seen in fanfiction- the use of the phrase 'bridal style'. Not that I have a problem with it, but it would just feel a bit typical XD
> 
> I gotta say guys, I was really happy your responses to the A/N in the last chapter. I'm glad you're supportive of the whole slow burn thing and understand the whole thing about how I want to emphasise that the PTSD isn't going to magically go away. So, I want to thank all of you. You guys are awesome. As in Prussia awesome XD
> 
> Hopefully I'll see you guys pretty soon. I'm working on quite a lot of things at the moment. I wanted to create my own artwork for this story, as well as possibly create some kind of music playlist or some crap like that to go along with it. Idk. And you would not believe the amount of story ideas I have.
> 
> Anywho, I need sleep. Hope you enjoyed, and remember to review!
> 
> Toodles!


	19. Silent Truce

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOM. Guess who's back with another sporadic and highly overdue update.
> 
> This will later be referred to by yours truly as the devil chapter. Not because horrible stuff happens in it, oh no. I'm chill in this chapter, I swear. So is England, come to think of it XD. No, this is the devil chapter because, well, look how long this took me to take care of. I mean really. In my defence, I have not been my at my best, health wise. Though you'd think with all these time I've spent bedridden, I'd have more time on my hands for writing.
> 
> Truth is, I actually wrote like a full chapter length section of the story immediately after I posted my last update. I did it at about two in the morning, which is good because I'm most productive at that time (yeah I don't get it either), but is also pretty bad because I know exactly what kinda bullshit I can concoct in the middle of the night. So I eventually went to bed, woke up hours later and went over what I'd written, and realised there was no way in hell I could post any of it within this new chapter.
> 
> I'd basically written out the entire big reveal scene where England finally tells the others everything. And like, that would be fine and dandy, except... well, look at the last chapter. Look what happened to England. He is well and truly screwed up from it. There's no way in hell he'd realistically be able to recount it all to the other countries only one chapter later. So I cursed late night me for being an idiot and saved the big reveal for later. The thing is, I have loads written out for future scenes- just not anything that I would be comfortable putting in at this exact point in the story. England needs recovery time before he can even begin with that shit.
> 
> So, here we are. Almost two months later. Whoops. To make up for it, here's a longer than normal chapter. The extended length wasn't actually intentional, but I guess it works as an apology. Sorry, guys XD
> 
> Warnings: another bout of temporary amnesia and not your usual dose of angst. Yeah, you read that right. I don't spy much angst at all. In fact, what I do spy is multiple characters once again residing so heavily in the denial zone when it comes to their concern for someone else that they can barely manage to verbalise it internally and have to make up excuses when they say too much of truth. Looking at you, France.
> 
> Allons-y!

'No!'

Without any warning, England's head shoots up from his pillow. One second he is motionless, the next he is sitting up straight with a scream erupting from his mouth. And his eyes aren't just wide open- he can feel how hot they are. He knows they're _glowing-_

On the bedside table next to him, a glass of water shatters. The light on the ceiling also goes out in an instant, plunging the room into shadows as the blinds on the widows are down.

'No! _No!'_ he shrieks hysterically.

His body doesn't hurt anymore, but the pain is still there in his mind. His eyes quickly dart down at his abdomen, scanning for the teeth digging into his skin and the wolf's jaws around his body. But there's nothing there. It's his real body, not the rabbit's. He begins to shudder, letting out short, gasping breaths. His vision is shaking too, blurring and distorting. His stomach is lurching horribly. He brings a shivering hand to rest it on his chest, feeling around for the wounds. His hand comes away free of blood. There's nothing there. No lasting visible damage from his time trapped in another vessel, being torn apart. Nothing. Of course not. It wasn't this body.

He isn't alone. There's a group of people in the room with him, all of whom are standing within a few feet of him. They're blurry and unrecognisable, but they're all silent in shock, and he can just make out the fact that their faces are staring at him.

One of the figures standing closest to him is the first to react. They push past the others near the bed and reach his England's side, quickly reaching out for him. England recoils in horror from the touch. He can feel the heat in his eyes beginning to dim as the energy dies away. He must have accidentally let out some magic in his frenzy upon awakening.

'Brawd, it's alright,' the figure whispers. 'It's just me and the others. You're back in Scotland's ward. It's fine.'

One tall man with tidy blonde hair glances between the shattered glass and the broken bulb. 'How...?'

'His magic,' a red-head says nervously, nodding at England. 'Must have lost control a bit when he panicked just now. It happens.'

From the bed on opposite England, another red-head is already calling out. 'Is he alright? Does he know it's us or is he-?'

'N-no- please-' England chokes, pushing himself away from figure beside him and out of bed, immediately falling to his knees. He pulls himself up again, hands on the bedstead to support himself, surveying the group fearfully. They stand within a few feet of him, eyeing him almost as nervously as he does them.

Despite his vision currently not being perfect, he recognises their basic outlines and of course, their voices. But voices can be deceiving. Some can sound the same as others. The bad can disguise themselves as the good, as easily as anything.

His sight is slowly sharpening. That's good. He'll be able to identify his surroundings and protect himself once he can see properly. He hopes so, anyway.

His legs give way and he falls on all fours, his front end lurching forward and his forehead almost smacking the floor. He cries out, terrified that he can no longer stand.

That's when he feels something grabbing hold of him and a sharp pain in his arm. His head twists round to spot the needle and the vial of whatever the hell it is retracting from his skin.

Someone is just behind him, pulling him back and into their arms. 'Shh,' the figure says. 'It's alright, brawd. It will help. You'll be okay, I promise. Just hold on.'

His vision is blurring again. A shame. He was finally starting to see properly. Now, everything is engulfed in warped, shadowy shapes, growing darker and darker until there is nothing more.

* * *

When he opens his eyes, not a large amount of time must have passed, and he thinks his body may be broken. He's not entirely surprised, however. He's sure being crushed to near death by the powerful jaws of a wolf does that to you.

He believes this because although the memories are still right there in his head, consuming his mind, his thoughts are a little sluggish and his body feels dreadfully heavy. His stomach, however, is strangely calm, and he just manages to register that the twisting feeling of fear and panic is absent. He is somehow relaxed. Whatever they've given him has helped.

Although dull and rather distant, some part of him remembers the paranoia. He would panic if he could, incapacitated as he is in this hospital bed. As it happens, the most he can manage is trying to open his mouth slightly and keeping his eyes from closing.

 _Please. Someone help me._ His own words are echoing like a whisper in his head. How the hell did he survive? The wolves had caught him. He was done for, he must have been. He had felt the rabbit's soul die, until it was just him trapped in the body. He can't have lasted much longer than that.

But it was a different body in another world, so very far away.

Did...

Did someone help him?

He was screaming for help in his head, using all the magic that he could. But there can't have been a rescue. There was no one there to save him. So how did he make it out?

'England?' prompts the person who tried reaching out for him the last time he was awake. England stares back at him, recognising the similar features to his own, along with the shaggy brown hair. It's Wales. And all around the room are the others, wearing the same expression: anxious and full of concern.

They heard.

They heard him screaming for them and they came.

He _was_ rescued.

England's eyes fill with tears, though he barely registers this. He tries to sit up from his propped up pillows, but it is to no avail. His body is simply too tired. He is at least glad that the drugs mean he's not struggling to get any hyperventilating under control like he would usually have to do. There's no need for any of that. The other countries are here. He's safe. They saved him.

Wales reaches out again, a lot more tentative than before. A part of England quivers slightly at the thought of being touched, but he brushes it aside immediately. Because this is only a hand, merely the skin of another person colliding gently with his own. It's not a blade, nor the fangs of a wolf. It's not going to hurt him.

He bows his head slightly and accepts his brother's embrace when it comes, squeezing his eyes shut. 'You c-came.'

'What?' Wales whispers in his ear.

England smiles weakly and pulls away, looking at his brother in the eye. He decides to be honest; usually, England is awkward about this sort of thing. Thanking people, showing his real feelings, it's all so unnatural. But he has to; he's so _relieved._

'Y-you _heard_ m... me,' he says in a faint voice, his tears leaking slightly at the edges of his eyes. Strangely, he doesn't mind, even though he knows everyone's watching. 'You f-found me w... when I c-called.'

'England?' Ireland says uncertainly. 'What are yeh talking about?'

England swallows, feeling only a little shaky, though now he's rather giddy with joy. 'When I w-was about to d... die. You c-came.'

'About to die?' France echoes. He looks horrified, which is a little strange. France doesn't generally like act like he cares. England doesn't mind this either. He likes that France cares, he likes that they _all_ care. They must do, because they rescued him. They're here with him now.

England nods, glancing back at Wales. 'Y-you heard me. Th... thank you. I t-tried to call out. I w-wasn't sure if it w... worked. I really t... tried.'

'Iggy? What do you mean?' America looks concerned too. The thought of this both gladdens and worries England. America cares. But he's upset. Why's he upset? Was he _that_ worried? Why's he looking at England like this? And why is England shivering again? It's just _America_.

Then he thinks about Other America, the disguise, the blades and the crimson eyes full of malice-

But the America standing right here has _blue_ eyes and he called England by a ridiculous nickname which is something Other America never did and it may well truly be him-

'Hey... jerk?'

England turns his head and stares in surprise at the source of this new voice. With all these taller countries in the room, it's difficult to spot the little micronation. Sealand is standing next to America, looking confused and a little apprehensive. Why is he here? He's not exactly a big fan of England. Come to think of it, why are so many of them here? He scans the room again. The other members of the G8, plus England's brothers, are all present. Did they all come to save him? That doesn't make sense; as far as England's aware, the majority of the people in the room either resent him or simply don't care. And Scotland is in a hospital bed too; why is that? Did he get hurt somehow helping out?

Something's not adding up. England feels as if there's something he's failing to take into account, something he should be remembering.

'Jerk,' Sealand says again. 'They didn't hear you. I did, remember? And it happened ages ago.'

A few of the other countries stare at Sealand in confusion when he says this, but the micronation ignores them.

This is unnerving. There's been no hint of malice or hostility in anyone's voices or expressions. Are they really that concerned? Even little Sealand, who actually seems quite mature, standing there with an almost pitying look on his face?

And what was that he just said, about no one besides himself hearing England? What does he mean by it was ages ago?

'England-san?' Japan says rather nervously. 'Do you know where you are?'

England blinks. 'A hospital I s-suppose. It l... looks like one.'

The nations share a few worried looks. England tilts his head in confusion. It seems like a perfectly logical answer. He's only just regained consciousness after all. As far as his observational skills are working, this isn't too bad.

'England,' Wales says carefully. 'Can you tell me what year it is?'

England tilts his head, wracking his head. For some reason, the answer doesn't come to him immediately. He decides that this is probably because his mind is so occupied with the vivid flashes of the wolf tearing him apart, and the relief of knowing that he was saved... except they're staring at him like they don't understand what he's saying, and Sealand said something about him being the only one who heard England...

'… 2010,' England says finally as it clicks in his brain. He's been gone for about a month and a half, maybe a little more. It should be late December. One entire month inside the cell, then hours upon hours of torture. That could have lasted for days, for all he knows. It felt like an eternity. Then there was almost three weeks of isolation in the cell once more. And then... the game with the wolves.

The other countries shift uneasily and shoot worrying glances at each other. 'W-what?' England inquires, growing uneasy. Something's not making sense here, and it's not just the other countries' reactions that are causing him to suspect this. It feels as if he's forgetting something, as if something in his mind is being blocked.

'England,' Canada says, even quieter than usual. 'It... it's not 2010.'

England frowns. Alright, so perhaps he's misjudged the amount of time that's passed. Maybe it's early 2011. But even as he thinks this, he knows he's wrong. Something tells him he's got this all wrong.

Italy looks scared. 'You don't remember anything? You've forgotten all this as well?'

 _As well?_ England glances around at the different nations, hoping someone will offer an explanation.

'So, not only does he still not remember those five years... but now he's forgotten everything that's happened since he came back?' he hears Wales whisper anxiously to Ireland.

'He must think only a little bit of time's passed since he first went missing,' Ireland mutters. 'His amnesia's gotten even worse. Just when he was starting to remember everything. Damn.'

'I c-can hear you, y... you know,' England snaps, feeling a sudden wave of exhaustion sweep over him. Whatever it is they've given him, it's leaving him very drowsy. 'Wh... what's going on?'

'What is the last thing you remember?' Russia asks. He seems perfectly serious and solemn, and somehow that creeps England out more than his smile usually would.

'N... no.' Recounting what has just happened to him is not on England's agenda. He's trying very hard to block it out.

'Please, England,' America asks, and England tries not to wince. Despite his usual irritation at being addressed with a ridiculous nickname, despite how America's carefree attitude always used to exasperate him, he almost _craves_ them both now. Anything that distinguishes America from Other America. 'What do you remember?'

'B... Be...' England's eyes fill with tears again. This isn't fair. He doesn't want to talk about it. 'Being t-torn apart.'

The other countries let out an array of sounds, ranging from horrified gasps to cries of disbelief. And this is what finally confirms it for England; they don't know what he's talking about. They have no idea what happened to him, that he his soul was ripped out and trapped in a much smaller form, that he was hunted down as prey and was caught.

They never came to rescue him. But then... how is he here now? How did he _survive?_

This terrible realisation is accompanied with something else, perhaps even worse: the truth. Wales said something about five years passing. All of a sudden, his more recent memories are coming back to him, like some kind of wall blocking it all is crumbling inside his mind. It is slow at first, like the hazy events a dream finally coming back to him; then it all crashes down at once, in vibrant flashes of images, thoughts and feelings. It's late November. He's been back just over two weeks. He's spent the last five days in the States for the G8 (although he's barely spent any time at all at any of the actual meetings) and he's here at the hospital because Scotland fell from a great height yesterday and he himself is probably in bed because he collapsed in America's arms not long ago and _how the bloody_ _hell_ could he forget any of this?

His eyelids flutter as a lump of misery forms in his throat, and he has just enough time for a tear to squeeze out one eye before they both close and his head slumps back on his pillow.

* * *

He drifts in and out of consciousness for a while, barely even managing to open his eyes each time he is awake. For the most part, he listens. The words aren't making much sense a lot of the time and he's not entirely certain if they're really being said or he's dreaming them, but he occasionally hears snippets of conversations.

There are voices he doesn't recognise, probably the doctors and the nurses, discussing dosages and hospital procedures with Ireland and Wales. There are the members of the G8 talking too, though after a while the sounds of their voices grow fewer and far between.

'Ve... why did he forget about his return?' he hears Italy ask in a small voice at one point.

'I... I suppose the memory that came back to him in his dream was quite vivid,' Japan says. 'As if it was completely fresh. He woke up thinking it had just happened, I believe...'

He doesn't hear their voices much after that. Then again, he doesn't spend a whole lot of time awake, so he has no way of knowing how long it's been.

The glaring amber eyes of the wolves meet him in the darkness, but their eyes are just pools of light like at the end of a tunnel, and he can't move an inch. There's no pain. The eyes bring no fear now, just signal a release. The teeth have done their work. In his dreams, England is dead. He lies in the body that isn't his body, twisted and shattered but no longer feeling. Silent and resting, undisturbed now.

At some point in his waking moments, England becomes conscious of new surroundings; he's in another room, much darker than Scotland's one, and certainly a lot quieter. _More peaceful,_ his brain notes, deciding that the hospital staff have probably gotten their way and he's been transferred to a psych ward. The thought doesn't alarm him as much as it should, which is mostly down to the drugs in his system keeping him docile.

During one particular session of consciousness, trapped halfway between awake and asleep, barely able to keep his eyes open, he hears some shuffling at the end of his bed. His heartbeat speeds up, but that's about it; he doesn't even have enough energy to jump.

As it turns out, the source of the noise is someone quite small, sitting on the edge of the bed. Through his blurry vision, England can just about make out the micronation. He has no idea where the majority of the other countries are but he can just make out the muffled sound of Wales's voice outside the room, talking with a doctor.

'Hey, England?' Sealand says, and England blinks a few times, trying to clear his vision up a little. 'Are you awake?'

England tries to say yes, but his voice is raspy and ineffective. Sealand seems to get the message, however.

'I'm not supposed to be in here,' the child mutters, his eyes flickering over to the door. 'Wales said I'm not meant to disturb you, whether you're awake or asleep. But he's busy arguing with the doctors about stuff, so he didn't spot me coming in here.'

At England's raised eyebrows, Sealand elaborates, 'The doctors want to do things their way, but Wales and Ireland and the others won't let them. The G8 had to get all their important IDs out and everything and say they're government people.'

England wonders what it is Wales and the others are trying to stop the doctors from doing. Probably a proper psychological evaluation of England. If the doctors do get their way and carry it out, they'll probably diagnose him as clinically insane and want to keep him here, or transfer him somewhere else.

'Do you remember now? All the recent stuff that you forgot? Or do you still think it's 2010...?' The micronation fidgets with the zip on his coat, not meeting England's eyes.

Although exhausted and rather out of it, England can tell Sealand is uncomfortable at the thought of the alternative.

'… Y-yes,' England manages to murmur.

'So, like... you know what year it is? And what's been going on-'

'I k-know they d... didn't come for me,' England says. 'I know y... you're the one who heard m-me.'

A flash of relief crosses over Sealand's face before he puts on a big smirk and crosses his arms. 'Good, because those dummies were all useless. _I,_ on the other hand, actually did help out. And America. Can you believe he thinks _I_ would be the sidekick? If anyone asks, _he's_ the side-kick, not me!'

And here it is, once again- the strange urge to smile. Both America and Sealand seem to be quite good at causing this. England wonders where America is right now. How much time has passed since he collapsed? He means to ask, but it's an effort just keeping his eyes open, let alone speaking.

'Speaking of, um... stuff that you remember,' Sealand says unexpectedly. 'Was... was it Christmas?'

England tilts his head to the side slightly, unsure of what his little brother is referring to.

'The, um... the memory that came back. When you passed out.' Sealand's voice is small. He seems reluctant to bring it up. 'Was it happening at Christmas? 2010?'

'W-what?'

Sealand's eyes are as big and innocent as ever, yet he seems to understand something that the others never did before. Something tells England that Sealand has some idea of what he remembered, at that disturbs him all the more. After all, Sealand told him that he could _hear_ him crying out.

 _Did... did he hear me screaming for help when the wolves caught me? Did Sealand have to_ listen _to that?_

'I... don't know. Why?' he says hesitantly.

'You said you don't remember much yet, only like the first few weeks. So it could have been, right?'

'W... what happened at C-Christmas?' England dares to ask, fearing the answer.

'I'd been having loads of dreams for a few weeks,' Sealand replies. 'They were all dark and I couldn't really hear anything, and I always forgot them when I woke up. But then they came back to me, and I started hearing your voice- when you were calling for help. It was only like a whisper every time, because the connection was so bad. But I think you were screaming.'

England was in Other England's cell for a month, starting in early November. After that, he'd been strapped to the table for Other America to play with for who knows how long. He had maintained no concept of time during that session. Then he was in the cell again for almost three weeks. After that, it had been the chase with the wolves. As he thinks about it, the amount of time that must have passed matches up.

'I... I think... it m-might have been Christmas, yes.' _Oh God. He heard me. He heard what was happening._

Sealand nods, then his mouth slits into a familiar grin. 'You never got it, you know. Something beginning with L.'

'I d-don't think now's the t-time. It was v-very helpful before, but-'

'I'll give you a clue: it's something really important.'

'Sealand, p-please...' England can barely think straight. The room is starting to swim again.

' _You_ said it was really important. You told me that yourself. Back in the hotel, before we went to the hospital, when Ireland and Wales weren't listening to us. I told you I could be responsible, and I am. I remembered it for you,' Sealand finishes proudly.

The last thing England wants to do is search through his memories, because he knows what he'll see. But there has to be more to him than that one horrific memory of the wolves, playing on repeat, so he looks back to something a lot more recent.

When Ireland had brought him back to the hotel after the incident in the park, he had informed everyone that he was ready to talk- but only at the hospital, where Scotland could listen too. _Fat lot of good that decision was,_ England thinks to himself, annoyed that his limbs are so heavy, because honestly he wants nothing more than to smack his own forehead right now. _I failed America. I specifically wanted to do it at the hospital with so I could clear his name for everyone to hear, including Scotland. And I failed spectacularly._

And that's when he remembers that there's a solution to this. A solution he came up with after he and Ireland had returned to the hotel, before they all left for the hospital, as a backup plan if things went wrong- which they everything else going on, especially with all the drama at the hospital not long after, this memory has been rather pushed to the side in England's head. Especially since it was only ever supposed to be a last resort. He had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this.

'… L... List,' England says finally, realising that all this time Sealand has been giving him prompts to remember it.

'There, see?' Sealand says rather triumphantly, bouncing up and down a little. 'I guess you're not as bad at this game as I thought you were. So... I should give it to them now?'

England sighs heavily. He's glad Sealand waited long enough to ask him. 'Y-yes. Now. Th... thank you.'

'Okie dokie,' Sealand says with a mock salute.

'Did... did you r-read it?'

'Yeah. Obviously.' Sealand is completely unashamed. Besides, it's not as if he _wasn't_ supposed to read it. 'Why do you think I'm not mad anymore?'

When England squints in confusion, Sealand rolls his eyes and continues, 'You know, I was angry 'cause you basically made it sound like America was a bad guy when we went to see Scotland-'

'That's not- I w-wasn't-'

'I know that now, dummy. Like I said, I read the list.'

Wearily, England opens his mouth to say more but at that moment Wales's voice is calling out to Sealand, asking where he's run off to. Sealand slides off the bed and grins mischievously, aware that if he's caught he'll get scolded for disobeying his brother. It's just as well this little meeting is coming to an end, because despite England's efforts to keep his eyes open, he can already feel himself slipping away.

At the door, Sealand glances back. 'Christmas was the first time I heard you calling,' he admits, and then he's gone.

It takes England seven hours and three more returns to consciousness before he even realises that Sealand never once called him _jerk._

* * *

'Sea, I told you not to go in there.'

'I wasn't disturbing him. He was already awake.'

The sound of the two siblings' bickering voices rings through the open doorway and the countries look up from their paperwork, hardly surprised anymore by the threat of a distraction. Certain countries in particular, putting aside all the tragic and unfortunate events of the last week, are almost amused by the amount of interruptions that seems to have befallen the G8 recently.

France lets his pen drop onto his papers and leans back in his chair, watching the doorway expectedly. Despite having been late for the meeting today (he spent half an hour or so visiting Scotland this morning), there's not much else for him to write anyway. Unlike nations like America, who have been running around all over the place and skipping meetings, France has been remarkably attentive to this G8 summit, all things considered. As attentive as any of them have been able to be, anyway.

'He was awake? Why didn't you tell me while we were there? I could have spoken to him...'

'He was super tired. He pretty much fell asleep again as I left the room.'

Sealand practically bounces into the meeting room ahead of Wales, who seems rather focused on the news that England was briefly conscious.

'What did he say?' he continues, sharing glances with the members of the G8 who all seem equally intrigued.

'Did he remember what year it is?' Japan asks politely.

'Yep,' Sealand replies, hoisting himself up to sit on the table, right next to America's seat. A few of the more mature countries in the room look on a little disapprovingly, but no one says anything. 'He said he remembered the stuff that's happened since he got back.'

Wales sighs in relief. 'That's good. Was he... upset? Or frightened, or-'

'He seemed pretty chilled-out,' Sealand says with a shrug, rather oblivious to the tense atmosphere. 'It's 'cause of all the drugs you got the doctors to give him, isn't it?'

A completely docile England. In another time, France would have probably found that priceless. Now, he's more relieved than anything else (not that he'll be admitting this to anyone). After all, an incapacitated England is much more manageable than the wild, paranoid, nervous wreck everyone has gotten to know over the last week.

Perhaps in this state, England is actually easier to talk to. Not that he's ever been particularly easy to talk to, especially for France. But one thing everyone would prefer would be for them to finally get through to him in some form or other, and for him to respond with all that needs to be said. They came close, _so close,_ on that morning at the hospital, but of course it all went to hell.

It's been two days since then, and for the most part the G8 excluding Scotland have been diligently catching up on the work they have neglected over the last week. As is a tradition after most international gatherings, the nations are generally granted two weeks abroad for the conferences; one week to complete actual work, and one week of pleasure as a sort of holiday. Their extra week, in this case, isn't so much composed of free time as it is completing the work they failed to do last week.

Things have certainly calmed down in England's absence. While the Brit has been in hospital, there have been no major disruptions and everything has mostly gone back to normal. Even America is acting more and more like his usual self; the weight of Scotland's accusations and his obvious concern for England both seem to have lifted slightly. From what France can tell, something happened in between America and England running off and them returning not long afterwards with England unconscious. England must have said something to put America's mind at ease, because the young nation is certainly back to acting like his cheerful self.

That isn't to say that he is completely his old self again. It's clear that quite a lot is bothering him, and on the evening of England's collapse America even admitted to France, Canada and Japan that none of this would have happened if he hadn't run off in the first place.

'Nonsense,' France had said. 'You were upset, and rightly so. Whatever memory returned to Angleterre would 'ave come back eventually, no matter what the situation.'

'It was a misunderstanding,' America mumbled. 'What Iggy was trying to tell everyone. And I heard it all wrong-'

'I assume whatever it was England-san was trying to tell us, we all heard it wrong,' Japan said evenly.

'Besides, you and England straightened it out,' Canada pointed out, and France had taken note of the particular underlying tone in Canada's voice. The North American brothers certainly knew something that he and Japan didn't, probably due to the fact that Canada and Ireland were the ones who found America and England, while France was stuck with Russia, searching for them in the wrong direction. Canada must have witnessed some scene or other when he and Ireland located them.

France is becoming more and more aware that certain people are in on some kind of secret. Ireland has barely been around the G8 for the last two days because, seeing as he has no obligation to actually be here, he's mostly taken up the role of keeping an eye on both Scotland and England. But he definitely knows something. Whether it's from the incident in the park or it's whatever he and Canada overheard between America and England, Ireland is keeping secrets.

Then of course, there's America, and England's youngest brother, the little micronation Sealand. They've been thick as thieves for a couple of years now, something France found both amusing and, in a way, a little bit sad. Not in a pathetic way, absolutely not. But he's always suspected to some degree that their new found friendship was partially, and rather subconsciously substituting for England's 'death'. That isn't to say that Sealand was a replacement. Of course not. France has learnt that, strangely enough, nothing seems to fill that particular hole. From his own personal experience over those five years, France has come to realise that no one argues the way England did, or proves to be such a consistent and, well, _decent_ rival the way England was.

France will admit it, even if it's only in his head: he has missed that particular element of his life. He did miss England. Death seemed like too final and foreign a thing for England of all people. It was barely conceivable. And now it needn't be anymore.

France wonders if he should go to see England. He was in the hospital this morning to see Scotland. He could have gone round to the psych ward, but he didn't. He could go back. He can make up excuses as easily as breathing, of course. He could claim that he finds England's pitiful state amusing, the way he used to do whenever England was ill. But it doesn't quite work like that anymore. England is fragile now, as has become abundantly clear to everyone, and England's fragility isn't a laughing matter. Not even for his oldest rival. If anything, it disturbs France. He's seen England in so many states over the last millennium. But never this... broken.

Not during the English Civil War. Or the plague, when he and France and so many others were sick and bedridden and mourning the losses of their people. Or the Great Fire of London. Or the late 1700s, when he had lost his American colonies and had all of Europe up against him. Or the Great War, where the two were both there on the front lines. Or the Second World War, during the height of the Blitz. Or the collapse of the British Empire.

These things are all heavily linked to the British people themselves, after all. There were of course elements to each one that were naturally personal to England specifically as his own person, but the pain and wounds he suffered during each event were generally coming to him via his own peoples' hardships and suffering, the same way every other nation experiences their peoples' plights.

But this... whatever this is, it's entirely personal. Whatever damage has been done to England, it's been aimed directly at him and not through his people. And it's turned him into a nervous wreck.

France remembers a few nights ago, when he and Canada were tasked with watching over England. He thinks about the scream he heard, and the look of unfathomable terror in England's eyes, like nothing France ever seen in England before. Not even during those cold, silent nights in the trenches.

The fear wasn't just from hallucinations. That's the one thing everyone believes, but France knows there is more. Whatever is going on with England and America, _that_ is down to whatever England's brain is forcing him to see. But that night, when England had looked at France, he wasn't seeing something that wasn't there. There was no lack of recognition. He knew it was France, and he was scared anyway.

No one else knows, and France isn't really too keen on sharing. As far as everyone knows, America is the one England is specifically terrified of. Once, France might have pinned his wish to not tell anyone on him simply being too proud to let anyone know it bothers him. Now, he keeps quiet because there's enough trouble already without him bringing up yet another issue.

He should go and see England. And yet, he probably shouldn't. The last thing England needs is more cause for fear. _Look at that,_ France thinks bitterly. _Thinking on behalf of Angleterre. Oh, I would have laughed about it. Five years ago, when I still could._

And yet, he finds himself choosing to do it anyway.

Because when Wales openly admits that he hates leaving England unsupervised in the hospital and that someone should be there, France really does do the unexpected.

He volunteers.

* * *

England finally comes to properly, blinking several times with heavy eyelids. He wants to close them again but his mind has other ideas, already raring to go from its sleep. The drugs must be wearing off, although England imagines that he'll be administered another dosage fairly shortly if that is the case.

The twisting feeling in his stomach is back as the unease kicks in. He's known that it's been there since he returned to this world, lingering in the background and flaring up in moments of panic, but never before has he been so overly conscious of it. When he was put out it went away, and now that it's back it seems so very prominent. Nerves, anxiety, paranoia, whatever the hell it is- it's _annoying._ He frowns.

'You're back,' says a voice beside his bed.

Trapped halfway between the effects of the drugs and sobriety, his shudder is little more than a sharp intake of breath. He twists his head to the right to examine who he has as an audience.

Just one person.

'The frown gave it away,' France says. 'Such a typical expression of yours. You're awake properly now, aren't you?'

England tries to muster up his voice, but he soon realises that if it does come out, it will probably sound like a croak, and he prefers it when France is at the butt end of the frog jokes. As soon as this thought flashes through his mind, some element of contentedness trickles through him. It's familiarity, musing in such a fashion about his old rival. Almost like how it used to be before all of this happened.

He chooses to nod instead of talk, quickly clearing his throat in case he'll need words later.

England must be starting to think more rationally, which truly is a blessing. For the first time in a while, he is actually appreciative of his mind's workings. Because although he remembers how only a few days ago he was convinced France was working with the enemy, it isn't even the first thing that springs to mind now. Then again, England would like to think he's seeing things properly, but it may just be the lingering effects of the drugs keeping him calm; the small trickle of fear is still there.

It's there no matter whom he's confronted with, however, so it's hardly saying much. The doubt lingers behind every rational thought he has, no matter whom it concerns. The one true consolation, aside from the dull lack of concern for his own life (something he _knows_ deep down is wrong), is that if France truly works for the enemy and wants him dead, he could have smothered England with a pillow or something while the Brit was asleep, and snuck out before the staff noticed. He obviously hasn't done that.

France has a newspaper in his hands, which he must have been reading before England woke up. Come to think of it, why is France here?

'You'll be 'appy to know that no reports of Écosse's fall are in the news,' France says neutrally, glancing back to the paper and skipping through the pages idly. 'The American and British governments 'ad to get involved on that one. It's been covered up for now. But 'e's starting to 'eal, a lot faster than a 'uman would. The doctors will grow suspicious soon enough.'

'W... what are you d-doing here?' England asks.

'Well, your frères wanted someone stationed 'ere at all times for whenever you were to wake up,' France says, looking thoroughly bored with the contents of the newspaper. 'Our bosses 'ave granted the G8 our free week 'ere in the States as time to finish up all the work we 'ave missed due to... ah, recent events.' At that last part, he looks pointedly at England with a smirk.

'G-guilty as charged. Why y... you, though?'

'You've been out for two days. Your frères 'ave been watching you for the most part. But they need the occasional break. And I've already completed most of my work.'

'Since w... when are you so efficient?'

'It would seem my productivity 'as increased quite a lot,' France says in that gloating voice he always used to use when he wanted to rub something in England's face. This time however, it causes no annoyance. 'I seem to actually get my work done when I'm not distracted by someone to argue with constantly, as I've learnt over the last five years.'

'… I suppose that m-must be a blessing for you. I b... bet Germany's pleased,' England muses quietly.

'Oui. Though, I must admit, it 'as been a little dull. The world meetings seemed to... lose a little character to them, in a way,' France admits, eyes once more fixed on the newspaper.

England's eyes widen. The way he and France used to do this, it was like a game. Mean comment, snide retort, mean comment, snide retort, on and on like a broken record. And then, every so often, there would be the occasional admittance of something a little more... compassionate than that. Is this France, being kind? He's already here, watching over England, probably of his own volition.

England shakes his head slightly to clear away these thoughts. There are more important things to be focusing on. Now that he's awake properly, he needs to ensure that he's not completely helpless.

He starts by pushing himself up into a sitting position, before lifting his covers back and swinging his legs over the side. He can now see he's been changed into white patient attire: thin, loose, long sleeved shirt and trousers. The dizziness arrives as soon as he's upright, but he blinks a few times and tries to ignore it.

'You really shouldn't be getting up, mon ami,' France says.

'I'm n... not your friend,' England replies instinctively.

'Oh, so we really are resuming the previous nature of our relationship? I thought things were changing now.'

'L-like what?'

'Well, your relationship with Amérique, for instance.'

England closes his eyes briefly. France has been known to hit directly where it matters before. 'Yeah. M... my stupid sodding instincts have s... screwed it all up. I'm scared of him. As y-you can all see.' _I was scared of you too,_ he adds in his head. _I wonder if you could tell._

'You're both a lot more open than before-'

'As in I'm o... open about b-being afraid of him. We've established th-this.'

'I suppose your ever present stubbornness is a reassurance of sorts,' France says dryly. 'You're still very much yourself at times. Although these times are unfortunately rare, I must say.'

'Worried now, are we?' England sneers.

'Perhaps I am,' France says defiantly.

England stares at him. France stares right back.

'What I mean,' he continues, without breaking eye contact, 'is that you barely insult each other anymore. You're never been the best at subtlety when it comes to Amérique; for all your jabs, false despise and misplaced emotions, you wear your care for 'im for all to see and always 'ave done. In fact, perhaps it is not you who 'as really changed when it comes to the two of you. Amérique is certainly showing 'is true colours now. 'E's never really been one for being open, 'as 'e? But this is certainly changing. Did you know 'e carried you back to Scotland's 'ospital room? 'E doesn't even deny his concern for your well being.'

The recently returned twisting in England's stomach is as uncomfortable as ever. But he's not entirely convinced that it's just out of fear alone.

'I s... suppose this all amuses you, f-frog,' he says as evenly as he can.

'It intrigues me. And brings me comfort, I suppose,' France says with a shrug. He sounds indifferent, which itself sounds rather forced. 'I prefer it when people are 'onest.'

'What th... the hell do you mean b-by that?' England demands, baffled. On those rare occasions in which France and England actually used to say nice things to each other, it would only ever be for fleeting moments. This one seems to be lasting a lot longer than that. Perhaps they've partaken is some sort of unspoken truce. 'Are y... you seriously invested in this? D-do you actually c-care?'

'Perhaps I do,' France says, glancing up from his newspaper and looking at England dead in the eye with an unreadable expression. 'Perhaps your disappearance and supposed death affected me more than I would ever admit to anyone. Perhaps, 'eaven forbid, it actually, to some degree, _upset_ me. Perhaps I missed my old rival. Perhaps it didn't feel the same without someone to argue with all the time and provide something engaging to those oh so dull meetings.'

'You...'

'Or perhaps,' France says slyly with a playful and taunting spark in his eyes, 'you are still 'eavily drugged and are starting to imagine the words you're 'earing. As if I, of all people, would ever admit something like that. Perish the thought. You 'eard nothing.'

'… Son of a bitch.'

France starts chuckling. 'Now, _there's_ the Angleterre I know.'

'Conceited twat.' But England is giving a weak little laugh now. It hurts his chest a little, but he doesn't really mind much.

In fact, he doesn't mind at all.

* * *

To say Sealand is a little subdued is an understatement. It would be very hard to miss the lack of his usual childish bubbly nature today. Wales would have left him the Ireland this afternoon, only Ireland is completely exhausted from taking a voluntary night shift to watch over England at the hospital. The brothers have decided that someone familiar should be there when England awakens in case he panics and confuses the staff. Wales hates the thought of England being unsupervised. But he's the one filling in for Scotland at the G8, and his earlier visit to the hospital has already pushed his work further behind. Besides, France of all people was up for the task. Who would have thought?

'You're absolutely certain England knew what year it was?' Wales says to Sealand that evening as he takes a seat on his bed. They've only just arrived back, and Wales is completely exhausted.

Sealand, who is now quietly amusing himself with a sketchpad at the desk in their room, nods, without looking up from his drawing. 'He still couldn't talk properly. But he can't still be cold from the other day. He's not stuttering from the cold, is he?'

Wales looks down. '… No. No, he isn't,' he says quietly.

Sealand doesn't say anything. He just quietly carries on with his drawing.

'Did he... did he say anything else important?' Wales asks hesitantly.

Again, Sealand nods. 'Didn't Ireland tell you anything?'

'I know he knows something,' Wales replies. 'He said as much. But he also said England should be the one to say it all, when he's ready.'

'He is ready.' Sealand scribbles out something on the paper, observing the mistake with a little pout.

'What?'

'He told me he's ready. We made a secret plan in case he couldn't talk. Pretty smart, huh?' Sealand turns away from his drawing at grins at his brother.

'What do you mean? When?'

'The day he got put in the hospital,' Sealand says. 'Before we left the hotel to go and see Scotland so England could do the speech in front of everyone. We were all getting ready to go and me and England came up with a special plan.'

'Which was what, exactly?' Wales asks.

Sealand looks quite smug. 'Well, he wrote out a list. Of super important stuff that everyone needs to know, in case he didn't get to say it. He said it was only a backup plan. So he gave it to me, 'cause I'm way more responsible than you think, and I already knew most of it. When he got really ill there, I wasn't sure if I was supposed to give it to you yet, 'cause he said it was only supposed to be in emergencies, and if he was definitely sure he wouldn't be able to say all that stuff to you guys. I thought maybe, when he woke up, he might still wanna actually tell you guys himself, but he said it was okay to give you the list. So, here.'

He fishes a crumpled piece of lined paper out of his pocket and hands it out to Wales, who does everything in his power not to snatch it as quickly possible.

'Sea, you... you...'

'Yeah, I know. I saved the day again,' Sealand says proudly with a wide smile. 'I'm gonna be the greatest country in the world some day. Gotta start early.'

Wales laughs as he clutches the piece of paper. 'Thank you, Sealand. I wish you'd given it to me sooner, though.'

'Had to ask him first,' Sealand sighs. ''Cause, you know, he'd probably get all grouchy otherwise. Not that he isn't grouchy anyway. Also, he said that we're the only ones who should be reading it. Me, you, Scotland and Ireland. 'Cause there's stuff on there, magic stuff, that the others won't get. So I couldn't really do it with the others around. He wanted to explain it all properly with everyone else, so you gotta wait a little bit longer and then you guys can back him up and everything when he does tell them.'

This is it. This is finally it. The answers Wales and the others have been begging for, right here in his hands. All of a sudden, Wales is both desperate and afraid. It's what he's wanted since England returned, but it will be bad, whatever it is. Of course it must be, if it's the reason England is the way he is now. He opens up the paper slowly.

'This is the stuff England wanted to say,' Sealand finishes. 'All of it.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To avoid the A/N being too unbearably long, I've set up a page on my Hetalia Tumblr for this story which you can find here: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song. I'll try and keep a sort of status update on it for this story. I've also included quite a lot of important stuff on it, for anyone who has questions and concerns about the length, plans and content of this story.
> 
> The whole thing with there being a list was something I'd been planning a while- which is why I had Sealand doing the 'something beginning with L' thing in chapter 17, as away of distracting England from getting angry with the others, and reminding him of everything England was planning on saying, and that there was a backup. I was initially going to actually write out a scene where two of them planned the list out, but I had already reached the amount I wanted to write for that chapter, so I decided to instead simply reference it later. I'm not particularly happy with the way a lot of this content was written. Like I said, devil chapter.
> 
> One thing I do enjoy, however, is writing France and England. It's about time France got the spotlight. In one of my other stories, I had a lot of fun writing out a kind of bromance between them. I love their relationship a lot, no matter what form it's in, romantic or platonic. Here, of course, it's platonic, as S.S. USUK shall dock in the harbour at some point XD. I just wanted to emphasise that there are plenty of important relationships in this story, and although it's taken me long enough to get round to it, this is certainly one of them.
> 
> Oh look. The A/N was unbearably long anyway. There's a surprise XD
> 
> Anyway, I hope this was all okay for you guys. I'm not so sure, but at least I do have a lot of content for later on down the road in the story. I'm still in a bad way, I'm afraid, so I'll be getting some rest now XD
> 
> Toodles!


	20. Honesty Loose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok is2g if I haven't posted a scene where England talks to every single country who is currently in the States about everything he remembers so far in the next chapter, y'all can come and punch me. Provided I haven't done it to myself first. I would have fitted it in but I underestimated how much British Isles family drama I can cook up. It's all written out though, I promise. It has been for at least four months now. And there's parts of it that I wrote back in August. August.
> 
> Funnily enough though, although I haven't actually written this out yet, I have extensively planned out a scene, right down to the exact dialogue, in which England reveals himself to be alive for all the other countries in the world to see. And oh boy, that's coming alright. Probably ages down the line, knowing me, but I'm super psyched for it.
> 
> The chapter is named as such because people are finally letting the truth loose- their secrets and whatnot (whether it's to themselves or to others rather depends on the character, I guess). And it was also named this because there weren't many suitable words that rhymed with 'truce' from the chapter before. I mean seriously, what else could I have gone with? Goose? Moose. Shit, guys. I need to plan the chapter names out better tbh lmao. Idek how I've managed to maintain the rhyming couplets this long XD
> 
> Warnings: as if you lot even need reminding by this point, honestly. I should get a cheerleader squad to spell out ANGST in song format. Why isn't there a gif for that? Is there a gif for that? Please tell me there's a gif for that.
> 
> Allons-y!

_England is drowning._

_The water is seeping into his mouth and flooding his lungs. When he looks up, searching for air, above the surface of the water the sky has turned orange and is swirling vibrantly. Whether the motion in colour is due to the movement in the water from him thrashing around and the current, or whether it's because the orange glow itself is the flickering of a city on fire, England isn't sure._

_The more he struggles, the further down he seems to sink. He's never been a particularly strong swimmer. Up until the last century or so, he couldn't really swim properly at all. Having spent so much time at sea earlier on in his life, England had gone by an old, typical human approach when it came to being in open water: that it was better to drown nice and quickly then to be left afloat for a long time, where he could freeze to death or be attacked by the creatures beneath the surface of the water._

_Needless to say, however, he most certainly can swim now. Or he should be able to. But despite his efforts, the orange glow is dimming as he sinks further down._

_His mind doesn't register his impending doom properly, and a part of him knows he should be panicking more. But another part is strangely relieved. Not because he wishes for death- God knows, the prospect of death in the jaws of the wolf completely terrified him. But that was mostly due to how painful it was. Death in a calmer, gentler manner like the way he was headed in his cell during that first month is certainly more preferable. But that's not what this is about, not really._

_Perhaps, if he sinks far enough, he'll black out once more. And when he awakens, he'll be washing up on the shores of his Thames. His London. His land. His world._

_Or he'll simply die. Both are better than staying here._

_The orange above him has morphed into something very dark now. A cloud of black is rolling its way through the water, blocking the view above. It's a liquid of some kind, and honestly, by this point, England isn't confused as to exactly_ what _it is. If it was lighter down here in the depths, he knows he'd see it for its real colour: crimson. The blood, probably his own, is spreading out above him._

_Through its thick blanket, he makes out something even darker: a small shape, slowly sinking down through the haze of blood towards him. Even in the darkness, England can somehow recognise it._

_The mangled corpse of the little animal drifts down, heading straight for him, the blood gushing out its open wounds like water pouring out through holes in a damn._

_England's panic finally sets in properly. He twists desperately in the water, trying to get away from the body. He is not a part of it anymore. He doesn't ever want to see it again, to be near it or to feel one with it. He doesn't want the wolves to ever find him again._

_The blood has reached him, and all at once England is engulfed in its hold. He squeezes his eyes shut and chokes. All of a sudden, taking in the water and letting himself drown is unthinkable. He can't open his mouth for fear of the blood coming in as well._

_He may be able to close his eyes and his mouth, but he can't do anything about his ears; his arms are two busy trying to push him upwards for him to cover them. Besides, the sounds that are just beginning seem to be inside his head, not around him._

_The snarling and snapping of jaws, the crunching of bones and the terrified, agonised squeals of the little creature in the pack's grasp. In a flurry of bubbles, momentarily forgetting the blood all around him, England opens his mouth and screams._

_But when he opens his eyes, the blood and the body of the little creature are gone. Instead, he can once more see the surface of the water, much further away than before. The orange lights are gone, but he can just make out others instead; little faint spots of light here and there, not directly above but to the sides of the river, looking over him. The lights of the city, no flames in sight._

_But the world England has been trapped in knows no light at night time, not even light from the stars. The burnt and broken city was a ghost town when he had raced through it to escape the wolves. No people, no lights, no life. So how can there be lights now?_

_Then it clicks. The blood has gone. The city is alive above him. He's not where he was before._

Home.

 _England kicks out as hard as he can, refusing to let any more water inside him. If he can reach the surface and expel the water from his lungs, he'll be okay. He'll swim to shore and find help. He'll go to his brothers, to America, the_ real _America, to France or Japan or Canada. He'll go to anyone. His current relations with them, his pride, none of it matters anymore. Oh, how he wishes to see them all again._

_He can be safe. He can make it out alive._

_Something grasps his ankle and digs into his skin. He cries out, blinded temporarily by the bubbles erupting in front of his face. Glancing down, he can just make out something clasping onto him, and no amount of kicking seems to shake it off._

_It's a hand._

_The arm connected to it trails off into the darkness beneath, the body it belongs to being too far down to distinguish or even make out in the slightest. Without meaning to, England lets out another scream, struggling vividly to escape._

'You can't leave yet,' _giggles Other England's voice, echoing inside his head as if it's coming from his own thoughts._ 'What about the next game?'

 _Another hand rises up from the deep and grabs England's other ankle, and he hears Other America laugh._ 'Don't ruin the fun. No quitting now. We're just getting started.'

_The hands begin pulling, and suddenly England is sinking down faster than ever before, being dragged into the depths-_

* * *

_All in a sudden, the nightmare is over, already sinking down into the depths of his mind like he did in the dream. His eyes fly open and he coughs immediately, momentarily expecting water to come out. Instead, he breathes without any problems, albeit quite shakily. It wasn't real. Of course it wasn't. He could feel the water in his lungs but there was no urgency or pain. He had a sense of vague, bleary acceptance about his situation and accepted it without question. Dreams often tend to have that effect._

_But now, nothing makes sense._

_Although he's already established that he wasn't really drowning, he continues to cough and splutter. Suddenly, the questions and context he lacked in the dream are back, pressing down on him forcefully._

_Shaking violently, England curls up, wrapping his arms around his body as he pictures the torn up body of the rabbit sinking into the depths of the water in his dream. His soul was inside that creature. He felt himself being ripped apart and thrown into that state. He- he-_

_He's alive._

_His eyes dart around, searching for the wolves, but he is alone. He's not out in the open anymore. Instead, he's in a room, with ordinary furniture and pastel green walls. He's not on the floor on strapped to a table and there are no weapons in sight. He's on a bed of all things, as if this is just some normal morning he is waking up to._

_He thrashes around instantly, still hyperventilating, throwing the covers off and tumbling onto the carpet. Upon inspection, he's definitely in his real body, as if he needed any confirmation there. His clothes, the ones he's been stuck with since he first arrived in the Otherworld, are gone. He's in comfortable, red, satin pyjamas. The colour alarms him immediately, and he quickly lifts up the shirt and observes his skin._

_His chest is littered with scars and bruises from his session with Other America. But there are no puncture marks from fangs, no tell-tale signs of broken bones, and none of his limbs are twisted and broken._

_Of course not. A part of him knows there wouldn't be. Those wounds were all obtained on the other body, not this one. But only a brief spell of unconsciousness and the dream of him drowning separate him at the present time from that moment the wolf that caught him crunched the life out of him. With the pain still so fresh in his mind, he feels as if there should be marks showing. Somehow, he can still feel his bones snapping and his flesh being torn to shreds, like phantom pains. He should have died, right at that very second. That moment should have killed him. But it didn't. He's back in his own body, instead._

_'It was going so well,' says a voice in front of him. England gives a horrible jump and glances up, shaking violently. Other England stands in the doorway, staring down at him. His usual smile is missing._

_'You could have won the game,' Other England continues. England can barely hear him over the sound of his own ragged breaths. 'If you'd just kept running and hiding.'_

_England scrambles backwards until he crashes into a bedside cabinet. Panic is sweeping through his mind, casting shivers of fear and dread throughout his whole body. Whatever's coming next, he can't bear to even think about it. He's not ready, he'll never be ready, he can't bear anymore-_

_'We had to pull you out,' Other England says, a hint of a smile touching his face. His doppelgänger's terror seems to amuse him. 'Your soul, I mean. When the rabbit died, I broke the spell. Can't have you dying too, can we? You wouldn't be able to play with us anymore.'_

_England unwittingly lets out a whimper. Long gone is his strong, dignified stance in the face of all this horror. The words come tumbling out of his mouth before he can even stop them. 'P… p-lease. J-just let m… me go home. P-please.'_

_And then Other England truly does smile, his blue eyes narrowing for the grin spreading across his face. 'Aren't you silly?' He takes a few steps forward and leans down so he's eye-level with England._

_'You_ are _home,' he says quietly. 'This is where you belong now.'_

_As silently as a whisper, he gets up again and is by the door once more before England can process what he's just heard._

_'P… Please,' England begs. It doesn't even feel like his voice, and yet at the same time everything about it is completely him now- the vulnerability, the terror, the brokenness. 'S… Stop th-this. Please.'_

_Other England tilts his head thoughtfully. Disappointment flickers across his face. 'Huh. I think something went wrong. Oh dear. Al won't be pleased. It wasn't really meant to work this well. We thought you'd hold on a little longer.'_

_Someone is sobbing. England rather dully realises that it is himself._

_Other England doesn't say another word. He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. A click indicates that it has been locked._

_England doesn't even try to get his breathing under control. He sinks down until he's lying on the floor, then curls up again, choking out sobs with no control whatsoever. It doesn't even feel like his body anymore. But the only other body he had is dead, mangled and twisted by the wolves. It is broken in the flesh._

_And here, he is broken in the mind._

* * *

England awakens to find his cheeks wet with tears.

His body is shivering too, though not from the usual panic settling inside him. He is shaking from light, soundless sobs, his mind retracing not only the events of his flashback, but also to the dream he had inside it, following the wolves capturing him. Of how he'd caught one brief, fleeting glimpse of his old world and had tried so hard to reach it, only to be dragged down until the darkness. With a lump in his throat and stinging, wet eyes, England turns his head to his side.

France is still here, but he is quietly chatting away to someone sitting next to him. It's America. And definitely the America of this world, because England can just make out those familiar blue eyes behind the glasses.

The two other nations seem to realise England has awoken at that moment, because they both widen their eyes in shock.

'Iggy- dude,' America says quite hastily. 'Shit, um- do you need me to go? I could step outside for a sec. If it helps.'

The nickname, the uncertain suggestions in an attempt to be helpful, the nervous but innocent smile he sends, the blue eyes. England has no doubt in his mind that this is one hundred percent America, _his_ America. He shakes his head and gives his own tiny smile. He's relieved to see America, and that is such a nicer feeling than being terrified at the thought of his presence.

'Angleterre,' France says softly. 'What 'appened?'

England frowns in confusion, before remembering that there are currently tears streaming down his face and the other two can obviously see them. This right here would be enough teasing material for years, split between both France and America. If things were the same as before. England would be humiliated and utterly miserable at the thought of being caught by them of all people in this state. If things were the same as before. He may even have attempted a pitiful attempt to turn it around and tease them for actually showing concern.

If things were the same as before.

'Another memory?' France guesses.

England nods again.

'Oh man,' America murmurs. 'That sucks. You, uh… you sure you're okay with me being here?'

England doesn't respond. Instead, he pushes himself up as best he can. His quivering arms aren't particularly trustworthy for support, but he manages to get into an upright position.

'How l… long…?' he begins. The words feel harder than ever to come out. 'How long h… have I b-been asleep?'

'About four 'ours,' France says, then turns to America. 'It's, what? Seven o'clock? Eight?'

America checks his phone. 'Half seven. The meeting ended a couple of hours ago. I thought I'd come over and say hi. I woulda brought snacks but they don't let you do that in here, which is totally unfair and dumb.'

'Ridiculous American,' France sighs, earning a pout from the younger nation.

England is privately grateful that they don't continue to press on why he's crying. He lifts his hand up and wipes the tears away as best he can. 'D… did I m-miss anything?'

'Not that I know of,' America replies. 'No major drama or anything, other than the usual crap that happens at meetings. To be honest, the most exciting thing that happened today was Italy spilling soda all over Germany's paperwork. That was funny.'

England's throat feels tight. The thought of that dream he had inside the flashback is hurting more and more. He had been so desperate to escape and re-join the life and the people he left behind. For the first time, England feels that he is now fully appreciative of what he had- before 2010, anyway. Ever the pessimist for so many years, England realises now that he could never truly see all that he had. He used to hate so many things. Or at least, he thought he did.

A new wave of thoughts and emotions is washing over him, one that completely swallows up all the fear he has left.

He _missed_ them. All of them. Even the ones he once claimed to despise. He missed those stupid, useless meetings and all their random, ridiculous occurrences. He missed those unbearable conferences and hours spent travelling around for international affairs. He missed all those bloody fools who made his life confusing, frustrating, familiar and _so much better_ than his ordeal in the Otherworld.

He stares at America and France and remembers how much he would have given to get it all back again, and he just like when he awakened and thought the others had rescued him from the wolves, he feels nothing but relief. Except this time, he is no longer held by delusions. He sees his situation for what it is. It may not be over, but he is back where he belongs.

 _And to think,_ England muses sadly, _that I was ready to throw it away again, that morning by the pond. I finally reclaimed my true life, my_ good _life, and I almost lost it again._ The thought is like a punch to the stomach.

'You see to be quite deep in thought there,' France says with a smirk.

'Yeah dude, you totally spaced out. Still with us?' America asks.

They've held back the playful teasing so far, but England doubts they'll be able to resist it if he admits his epiphany out loud. If anyone found out how much he missed everything here, they'd never let him live it down.

'M-my brothers,' England says, deciding a distraction from his own thoughts is probably best. He is curious as to what his family is up to. 'W… what about them?'

France sighs. 'Secretive, to say the least. I'm sure at least 'alf your family and certain others too know something the rest of us don't about your situation.'

England looks down. France isn't a complete fool, he'll say that at least. It's hardly slipped his notice that certain countries are in on England's secret.

America shifts rather awkwardly, clearly thinking along the same lines as England. 'Well, it'll all make sense for everyone pretty soon. Right, dude?'

England nods, wondering if Sealand did give the list to Wales after all. He really hopes so. Perhaps Scotland and Ireland have seen it too. Oh, what a relief it will be when they all know the truth.

He just has to hope they'll believe it.

* * *

Ireland awakens to the sound of his phone buzzing with a new message. He groans and rolls over, forcing his stinging eyes open. Already, he can feel the exhaustion lulling him back to sleep, but he fights it off nevertheless and reaches out for his phone.

It's from Wales, and quite short. _**You awake? We're heading over to your room now.**_

Ireland sighs and rubs his eyes, then pushes himself out of bed. The room is extremely dark as Ireland has kept the thick curtains closed, what with needing to rest in the afternoon after a whole night of staying in the hospital, watching over England. Come to think of it, he really has no idea what time it is now or how long he's been asleep. He should have probably checked.

A knock on the door comes around five minutes later, as expected. Ireland is more alert now and has gotten dressed. He briefly wonders why Wales is here, as someone should really be watching over England. The staff at the hospital have been persistently nagging the brothers for details and about procedures, which has really been rather bothersome. On top of that, the unspoken fear the countries seem to share is that England will go back on his word and run off again. Or worse still, there might be another attack of some kind; first this entity the other countries have mentioned, then Scotland's 'accident'.

'Other you. He's v-very different. N-not like you at all, in f... fact. J-just looks like you. Th... that's the problem,' England had said a few days before, has he was crouched on the floor, barely managing to get his words out for America. Ireland and Canada had watched from afar, knowing better than to interfere. From that point on, Ireland's head has been spinning with his younger brother's words.

This other world he first heard about in the park is parallel. England spent those five years in an alternate dimension; a reflection of this one. A world in which there seemingly must be other versions of the countries- at least, definitely another America, from what England managed to say before he passed out.

This other America is responsible for Scotland's fall. And he had a hand in whatever happened to England. A big hand, Ireland would argue, considering the state England's in. Which doesn't seem to make any sense whatsoever, when Ireland compares that to the America he knows in this world; a friendly, well-meaning, self-proclaimed hero who cradled England in his arms when the latter fell unconscious and never even tried to bother hiding how worried he was.

'Hey,' Ireland greets Wales and Sealand as he opens the door.

The micronation is looking ever so pleased about something, whereas Wales appears both a mixture of excited and nervous. 'England left a note,' he says breathlessly.

'A note,' Ireland repeats numbly. For a moment, he is terrified; the phrase 'England left a note' seems quite ominous, and with his current mental state, not to mention his plans in the park two days before, England clearly doesn't value his own life much these days. Ireland hates to think that something dreadful has happened- that maybe England ran again, despite him promising he wouldn't, or that he did something far more drastic and horrific. But it's clear that none of this has happened, because Wales seems quite pleased and hopeful. Whatever it is, it's something good.

Wales notices Ireland's small moment of panic. 'No, it's nothing bad,' he says quickly. 'He's still at the hospital, he's fine-'

'Who's watching him?' Ireland demands. 'Shouldn't yeh be there? Is it my turn again?'

'No, no, it's fine. France has got that covered.'

'France?' Ireland asks in surprise.

'Never mind that,' Wales says impatiently. 'England wrote a note before he was admitted here.'

'A list,' Sealand specifies, undeterred by his older brothers' seriousness. He's still smiling smugly.

'What kinda list?' Ireland says.

Wales fishes a scrap of lined paper out of his jacket pocket and waves it in front of Ireland's face. 'Read it,' he insists.

Ireland takes the list and goes over it quickly.

__ **Important**  
__**America is innocent.**  
__**Sealand: Only show this to Scotland, Ireland and Wales. The others probably won't want to believe this.**  
__**Scotland, Ireland and Wales: listen to Sealand. He knows more about this than any of you.**  
__**The reason Wales and Scotland couldn't sense my life force anymore is because it really was cut off. I was disconnected from this world. My life force was severed from my land and people when I was taken. That's why they thought I was dead.**  
__**The Thames was a gateway, just like the mirror the entity came through. I was in another world.**  
_**Specifically,** _ **the** __**Otherworld.**  
__**It's parallel. A mirror of our own world. But bad. Very bad.**  
_**The countries there are us. And they are dangerous.  
** _ __**They're not finished. They want something from me. My escape from them only delayed whatever it was. They'll come back for me.**

When Ireland doesn't express outright shock, Wales grows suspicious.

'You already knew,' he accuses.

Ireland sighs. 'Aye. Some of it. _Most_ of it, actually.'

'When did he tell you? In the park?'

'Sort of. Most of what I know is from me overhearing him talking. So if it's any consolation, my knowledge on the matter ain't from him choosing to trust me over yeh, Wales. We both know he wouldn't do that. I heard him talking to the fae 'bout him being in another world. Then I heard him saying to America before he passed out that this other world is parallel. But this part…' Ireland peers at the list again. '… about it being _the_ Otherworld- now that, I didn't know. At all. Bloody hell. So _that's_ what the Otherworld is like; parallel. Never woulda guessed.'

'Why didn't you say anything earlier?' Wales says indignantly. 'You've had two days to mention this-'

'Probably for the same reason I didn't give you the list straight away, dummy,' Sealand says brightly. ''Cause England's the one who should be saying all the super important stuff, and we're not supposed to unless he says it's okay, or he's told you most of it already.'

Ireland grins and jerks his head in Sealand's direction. 'What the lad said.'

Wales looks between the two of them exasperatedly. 'I just wish I hadn't been kept in the dark. Our whole family seems to have known- except me.'

'And Scotland,' Ireland adds. 'England refused to talk to him about any of this, apparently. He's been getting quite a bit of his memories back over the last week or so and Scotland doesn't have the faintest idea 'bout what England's remembering.'

'We need to tell him,' Wales says. 'This part about America being innocent, right at the top- England's really prioritised it. Of course he did. He hasn't offered a proper explanation for it though. I'm not saying I need evidence; obviously, I don't believe America is guilty. But England wants us to show this list to Scotland as well, and he'll need more than this.'

'It's all right there, Wales,' Ireland says rather softly, holding the list out for Wales to take back. 'Think about it. Read the whole thing again.'

Confused, Wales skims over it one more time. 'I… I don't-'

'Remember what Scotland told us? Right before he fell, he saw something in a reflection. The things- no, the _people_ in the other world. Specifically, one of them. Whose voice did he hear?'

'America's,' Wales mutters. 'But… then… it was-'

'Bad America,' Sealand says quietly.

Wales swallows anxiously. 'America- America from this world- truly had nothing to do with it.'

Ireland nods. 'I heard England telling America himself. This America in the other world is responsible. And for quite a lot more than just what he did to Scotland, I'd wager. He must have done things to Eng-' He breaks off, remembering that Sealand is present and certainly not the kind of audience that this subject matter would be suitable for.

But then… Sealand is far more than just an innocent child. He's completely wrapped up in all of this. He and England are in on it together. The kid knows more about this whole mystery than anyone else, except England himself.

And these recent findings seem to ring with a familiar story: a game Sealand started playing when England went missing, where he pretended that England was sending him messages…

'This part,' Ireland says, taking the list from Wales again and turning to Sealand, 'right here. It says that yeh know quite a lot about all of this, and that we should listen to yeh.'

'Well, yeah. Duh.' Sealand bites his lip and avoids his elder brothers' gaze. Something about this has caused him to grow uncomfortable. 'I always knew.'

'So England told yeh all of it, then?' Ireland asks, feeling perplexed. Of all the people he would have expected England to confide in, he wouldn't have suspected Sealand. He knows England privately cares about the child and Sealand did a piss-poor attempt at pretending not to care when England vanished, but other than that, when have these two ever been close? Sealand is a kid- what possible comfort and help could he offer that the other nations couldn't?

'I always knew,' Sealand repeats. 'I just didn't get it- not completely. But it's like a puzzle. I had some jigsaw pieces, but they didn't fit. Then England added his own, and now it all makes sense.'

Ireland and Wales are growing increasingly confused. 'Sea, what do you mean?' Wales says.

The child intertwines his fingers and twists them around in an anxious fashion. 'Before he came back, I knew stuff, but not all of it. And the stuff I did know didn't make any sense. But now it does. 'Cause England helped finish my puzzle. He just hasn't finished his own.'

'Okay…' Wales begins, still at a loss.

Sealand finally looks up with a glare, and Ireland realises the kid isn't nervous; he's angry. All traces of his usual bubbly childishness are gone.

'I knew he was in another world,' Sealand continues. 'I didn't really get it- all the stuff about dimensions and gateways and all that. I just knew he was far away.'

'What are yeh saying, Sea?' A sinking feeling is beginning to spread through Ireland's stomach, and from the look on Wales's face, he's feeling something similar.

'The same stuff I tried saying over and over again,' Sealand says, his voice quivering. His face is neutral but his eyes betray him; they're brimming with angry tears. 'Or are you just gonna ignore me and tell me I'm playing games again?'

The child tries to force a smirk onto his face, but it looks miserable. His attempts at remaining smug are overshadowed by how upset he clearly is underneath.

'I first told you in 2011,' Sealand finishes, folding his arms, 'because I knew back then. And now you've finally caught up.' With that, he turns around and storms out the room.

Wales seems to be in a state of shock, leaving Ireland to handle the situation. He rushes out as well, following his youngest brother as he stomps off down the corridor.

'Sealand,' Ireland calls out, rushing after him.

'Go away,' Sealand says in a quiet voice, accompanied by a sniff.

Ireland reaches him and puts a hand on his shoulder. The child shrugs it off immediately, refusing to meet Ireland's eyes. His bottom lip is trembling.

A small voice in Ireland's head reminds him that the last thing they all need right now is a tantrum, and he hates himself for it. This is hardly irrational, childish behaviour; Sealand has every right to be upset. If this is all true- and it's becoming more and more apparent that it certainly is- then Sealand has spent almost five years knowing more or less what had happened to England, and his older brothers had continuously dismissed it as a mere game.

This particular affair with Sealand had been more to do with Scotland and Wales, not Ireland himself, though he had certainly heard about it through them. Just _how_ Sealand knew all along, Ireland has no damn idea, but it's clear that this child's words have been dismissed long enough.

'We're listening now,' Ireland says in as gentle a voice as he can muster. ' _I'm_ listening. And Wales and Scotland will as well.'

'They never did before,' Sealand points out.

'And they are honestly gonna be immensely sorry for that, lad. I am too. But look how happy yeh were when yeh came in- yeh practically saved the day here, giving us that list. And yeh know that, don't yeh? Yeh did a good job, Sealand. We're not just sorry, we're grateful.'

Sealand doesn't say anything, but Ireland spots his cheeks pinkening a little.

'How, er… how exactly did yeh know about England?' Ireland inquires after a moment's silence. 'Yeh used to tell Scotland and Wales yeh could hear his voice. And yeh mentioned something in the hospital, back when England got all confused and thought it was 2010 and that we'd heard and rescued him. Yeh told him something like yeh were the only person who heard him. Was that it?'

Sealand nods, eyes still on the ground. 'He told me the other day that he used his magic to call out for help when he was in the other world,' the child mumbles. 'So, um. Yeah. I have magic too. I wasn't making that up either.'

Ireland sighs heavily. 'I know. Listen: Wales and I need to go to the hospital and tell Scotland about all this. For a start, we have all the proof we need now to completely clear America's name. Yeh'd like that, wouldn't yeh?'

Although the tears still shimmering in his eyes and he is understandably still upset, this does seem to perk Sealand up a little. 'Then everyone will stop blaming America? You'll all leave him alone?' he asks hopefully.

'We weren't actually… never mind. Sure, lad. Even Scotland will believe the truth soon enough. America's got yeh to thank for that.'

A small smile breaks out on Sealand's face and he wipes a stray tear away with two fingers. 'Ha. I'm an even better hero than him. He's definitely the sidekick now.'

'Yeh be sure to tell him that,' Ireland encourages him.

There will be more tears later, Ireland is sure of it. Sealand has five years' worth of indignation and anger, and England has five years' worth of whatever hell he went through. No matter what little peace Ireland can bring between Sealand and his siblings for the time being, at least long enough to explain the contents of the list to Scotland, no matter how many drugs they dose England up with to keep him relaxed and how little he still remembers of the Otherworld, this momentary calm will give way to the storm once more.

They'll all just have to make the most of it while it lasts.

* * *

At the sign of one of his arms in much better shape than it should be by this stage, one of the nurses jokingly said this morning that Scotland must be some kind of miracle patient. Naturally, he finds this concerning.

He has spent the last couple of days telling Ireland, Wales and France, his three main visitors, that he needs to get out of here immediately, or at least be transferred to a private hospital back in Britain. The problem with the latter option, however, is that he is very much unwilling to leave his family and the other nations behind in the States, no matter how uneasy he is at the thought of remaining within America's grasp. Not that America has actually come anywhere near him, not since the day they all came to see him and England was admitted to the psych ward.

This only helps fuel the doubt Scotland has in his own accusations. He was so, so sure it was America's voice on that day he fell, and England had even said that he knew why Scotland would think so. But he never did get to finish what he wanted to say, because chaos had ensued, he'd run out and had another breakdown, woken up and forgotten what year it was, then been taken off to the psych ward…

Scotland shifts around anxiously in his bed, staring out the window at the darkened sky, wondering who's watching England right now. His brother isn't even that far away; they're in the same hospital, though they may as well be oceans apart for all the good this short distance does for them. Scotland is very much incapable of leaving his bed and he suspects that England's probably not permitted to leave his own designated ward, especially if he's completely drugged out.

The door begins to open, and Scotland stops his restless shifting immediately, knowing that if he were a human, which the hospital staff obviously believe him to be, there's no way he'd be able to move around like this without it being quite agonising (when in reality, this movement is causing a mild jabbing pain at best). The last thing he wants is the doctors and the nurses growing even more suspicious at his healing abilities.

But it's not a doctor or a nurse who has come to check on him; it's Ireland and Wales.

Ireland seems pretty chipper and confident, whereas Wales is far more subdued and downcast, like something is weighing heavily on him.

'Bit down in the dumps there, Wales,' Scotland teases, trying to sound upbeat. He know if he acts miserable or shows any pain, Wales will only fuss.

The middle brother doesn't reply, his mind clearly elsewhere. Scotland grows uncomfortable when he recognises the look in his brother's eyes; because surely he has looked very much the same way around England. It's guilt. Wales is feeling responsible for something bad.

'Who's watching England?' Scotland asks hesitantly.

'France,' Ireland replies.

'No way. I did _not_ see that coming.'

'I know, right? Apparently, he volunteered.'

'Now, that _definitely_ can't be right.'

'Times really are changing,' Ireland says, clearly amused. The humour dies when he and Scotland both glance at Wales again.

'Yeh alright there?' Scotland asks in a far more serious tone than before.

Wales deepens his frown, eyes staring at nothing in particular. 'Scotland, we… we screwed up. Really badly.'

'Yeh don't need to tell me that,' Scotland says with a heavy sigh. 'I don't suppose I'll ever hear the end of it, and to be honest, it's probably what I deserve. I still have no idea why we sensed England was dead at all when he was obviously still alive somewhere-'

'Not just with England,' Wales whispers. 'With Sealand. We screwed up with Sealand. And because of that… we screwed up everything for both of them.'

'Why? What happened? Is the lad alright?'

'He's in the waiting room outside,' Ireland reassures him quickly. 'The nurses said they'd watch him. He didn't want to come in here.'

'Why not? What's going on?'

'Some, er… new information has arisen,' Ireland begins awkwardly. 'Quite a bit, actually. Turns out England and Sealand have been thick as thieves, actually. There's no end to the surprises. They came up with a little plan and everything. England wrote out a list that turned out to be ever so helpful, I must say.'

Scotland watches as Ireland pulls out a crumpled little sheet of lined paper and glances at Wales to see if he has anything more to say. The brunette remains silent.

Ireland grimaces, and Scotland gets the feeling that despite how beneficial this list supposedly is, there are some parts that might be hard for him to hear.

'What kind of list?' he asks, his mouth dry.

Ireland doesn't answer, but instead goes straight on to the list itself. ' _Important_ ,' he reads out, briefly sending Scotland a nervous glance before continuing. ' _America is innocent…_ '

* * *

Sealand shakes the nurses off easily enough by heading straight to the nearest bathroom once Ireland and Wales have gone inside Scotland's room.

He hates the thought of staying in the waiting room, where anyone could take one look at him and his red-rimmed eyes, and try talking to him about what's upsetting him, like he's some tiny child that needs someone to kiss a wound better. He hates the thought of being with his older brothers even more; the only reason he came with them to the hospital is because apparently he's too young to be left unattended at the hotel. Which is rubbish, really. At least, he thinks so.

Maybe he could prove that he's mature by finding the psych ward all by himself. He could go and visit England, who is the one older brother he's not actually upset with right now. The thought of England being the only sibling he's not angry at is so bizarre he can barely believe it. _England_ , of all people. Sealand almost manages a giggle, but the laugh becomes a small sob.

No. He's not a little kid who cries at everything. What Ireland said, about him basically saving the day- that's what matters. He won't let them see he's upset. He is Sealand; he'll one day become a powerful nation that everyone will respect. No one will ignore him then. No one will tell him he's just playing make believe, or that he's a child and he doesn't understand certain matters.

 _Imagine how impressed and grateful everyone will be,_ Sealand thinks, a proud smile edging onto his face as he glances in the bathroom mirror. His reflection stares back, eyes still red round the edges and shimmering with tears. The smile does little to change the mood of his image. Sealand runs a tap and quickly rubs water over his face, washing the tears away as best he can, then uses his sleeve to dry his eyes.

'You're so… small.'

With a jump and a little squeak, Sealand's hand falls away from his face immediately and he spins around, trying to spot whoever must be in the room with him. But he locked the door, he's sure of it. And he can't spot anyone as he squints around and blinks in confusion.

He hears a giggle behind him. 'Over here.'

Sealand twists around, letting out another cry of alarm. Instead of his own reflection, someone else is in the mirror, like it's the screen on a TV.

It's England. But, at the same time, it's not.

His hair is a much paler blonde, and slightly pinkish too. His eyes aren't green but blue instead, and far brighter than Sealand's own eyes, or America's, or anyone else Sealand's ever met. They almost seem to glow in the dim light of the bathroom and they're open as wide as possible, though they thin out a little into more of a squint as a big grin spreads across his face.

'You're not England,' he says.

Sealand shudders a little, his voice quivering. 'N-neither are you.'

The person in the mirror laughs. His voice sounds exactly like England's, if England ever laughed. 'Oh, but I am. Here, not there. And who might you be?'

The micronation glances at the door before looking back at the mirror again. His whole body is shaking and his heart is pumping so wildly that he feels a little lightheaded, like his body isn't even his own. He's scared for a second that his legs might give way.

This is the other England in the evil world, isn't he? He's one of the people who took England away and did bad, bad things to him.

 _Have they come to take me too?_ says a terrified little voice in Sealand's head. _Are they going to hurt me too?_

Sealand's whole body has gone cold and he can feel himself trembling. All of a sudden, he really does feel like a frightened little kid. He's just a micronation, and all alone. These people were able to capture England and break him into what he is now. Sealand can't possibly stand a chance. He just needs to run before Other England finds a way to pull him in. He can go to his older brothers. He can't be upset with them now, not when he needs them. He doesn't want to stay away anymore; he wants them here with him, he wants to feel safe…

Those frightening, bright blue eyes drill directly into his own. 'I wanted to pay England a little visit and say hi,' Other England says in a voice that somehow sounds even younger than Sealand's, full of naïvety and innocence. But that can't be right. He must be very far from both those two things.

'But,' he continues, 'I tried to track him down, wherever he is right now. And I found you instead. I was somehow drawn to you.' He tilts his head at a funny angle, peering curiously with wide and unblinking eyes, the smile gone. 'You look like us- your England and I. Are we family?'

'No,' Sealand says very quickly in as brave a voice as he can muster. The word slips out before he's even thought it through, and more follow in a nervous stream. 'N-not you. You're n-'

'But you're my counterpart's family, aren't you?' Other England says hungrily, a new, peculiar smile twitching at the edges of his mouth. 'Are you his brother? Does my counterpart actually have younger siblings by blood?'

Somewhere at the back of Sealand's mind, beyond all the panic, he registers these words properly. _Do I not exist in the Otherworld? Don't they have a Sealand?_

Other England peers closely at Sealand, still smiling that strange half-smile. 'Why did I find you instead of England? It can't just be because you're family; there must be something else.'

Sealand swallows and backs away slowly. He can't find his voice.

Other England laughs again. 'Where you going, little one? We're having such a lovely little chat. You haven't even told me your name yet.'

The smile, the way he uses his voice, his entire demeanour- everything about him is so… _not_ England. Everything about him is wrong. His clothes are bright and colourful, like he's been doused in pink and baby blue paint, something his counterpart probably wouldn't be caught dead wearing.

England, the England Sealand knows, is strong and formidable, but he's not _scary._ From all the stories Sealand's heard about him, plenty of other countries throughout history have rightfully found reason to fear him. But Sealand himself, as young as he is, has never been exposed to any of that.

To Sealand, England is many things. Annoying? Yes. Stuck-up? Absolutely. Confusing? Always. Surprisingly nice? Every so often, especially recently (Sealand, desperate to try and calm himself down in any way possible, tries to imagine what it would be like if he actually mentioned that in front of England).

Terrifying? No. Not even if he wanted to be. Maybe it's because of his personality, maybe it's because he's not the same threat to the world he once was. Hey, maybe it might even be because… because he's family. If Sealand wasn't completely full of terror right now, he'd never be thinking about his brother like this.

England doesn't scare him. Not even when the two were alone in that hotel room and England was breaking down. He wasn't scared _of_ England, he was scared _for_ him.

Other England completely _terrifies_ him. Everything about him sends shivers through the child's body. Especially the way those black pupils, made ever so prominent by the light blue irises, seem to dig straight into his head. Sealand feels a sob working its way into his throat.

 _No,_ he begs himself. If Other England thinks he's weak, he might suddenly attack- he could lunge out of the mirror like that entity apparently did, grab Sealand and pull him into the bad world where they'll do all the same terrible things to him as they did to England. And maybe this time it will be England who hears Sealand crying out inside his head.

He's a small, shaking child who's about to cry. He's not even a real country, no matter how much he likes to pretend to be. He's not big or strong or brave, not like he wants to be. Other England probably already thinks he's weak anyway.

But right now, he doesn't want to be big, or strong, or brave.

He just wants to be safe.

Slowly, terrified that sudden movement will cause an attack, Sealand backs away towards the door once more. He's not going to stop now, not even if Other England tries to make him; he _has_ to get out.

'Don't go,' Other England says with a mocking pout, folding his arms, head still tilted to the side. 'It's very rude. I don't like it when people are rude.'

'S… sorry,' Sealand chokes. He doesn't know what else to say.

Other England's wide smile breaks out across his face again. 'Well, it is nice when people apologise. That's very polite. What's your name? Who are you to my counterpart, and why was I drawn to you?'

'I… I d-don't know…'

Other England's mouth curves downwards into a rather comical, sad, confused look. 'You don't know who you are to England?'

'I don't know why y-you found me.' Sealand's voice breaks a little as he talks. 'I'm… no one. I'm not even a country.'

The very thing he hates to admit feels so important now. He doesn't want Other England to take interest in him. He wants to be as unimportant as he is to everyone else. Maybe that way, he'll be allowed to go.

Other England lifts a hand up to scratch his chin. 'But there's something about you. I wouldn't have found you otherwise.'

Sealand whimpers. 'I… I'm not…'

He feels his back bump against the door, and his hand scrambles around for the handle. He's unwilling to take his eyes off Other England.

Other England sighs and feigns hurt. 'I suppose I can't stop you from wanting to leave. It's a real shame though.' His eyes narrow into thin slits. 'This has been interesting. I think I'm glad I met you.'

 _I'm not._ Sealand finds the handle. He wants to wrench it open in an instant and sprint out, but he twists it slowly, still afraid that Other England will react in some way. But he does nothing; he simply looks on, neither frowning nor smiling, and although his eyes are as bright as ever, there is something dark in them too.

 _Just let me go. Let me get away. Let me find help. Please,_ Sealand pleads inside his head, no longer caring how childlike and weak he sounds.

'Hey, little one? Can you at least do one small thing for me?' Other England calls out. He's still not smiling, but Sealand can hear it in his voice. It's not a smile he ever wants to see.

'W-what?' Sealand says, praying for all the bad things to end here.

A wide grin splits across Other England's face, bigger than all the smiles he's worn so far. His eyes are wide again and manic.

'A message for my dear counterpart,' he says with another giggle. 'Tell him we all send our love! And…' His voice grows quieter and his grin morphs into a much calmer smile. 'We're waiting to repay him for all that he gave us.'

Still shuddering, Sealand nods his head numbly. He doesn't know what these words mean, and right now he doesn't care. All that matters is that he's being released.

Even as the image in the mirror fades and Sealand steps out of the bathroom, Other England's ringing giggles echo throughout his head. And try as he might, he can't force away the image of those bright blue eyes burning into his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> To any Game of Thrones fans here, read 'we're waiting to repay him for all that he gave us' the same way you'd read 'the Lannisters send their regards.'
> 
> I am genuinely sorry for what happens to Sealand in this chapter. The inevitable part where his family realises he was telling the truth all along was unavoidable, and I'll be touching on that more, obviously, because it doesn't just magically mend like that. And the whole thing with him meeting Other England was something else I needed to write as key to the plot. I just figured, realistically, given that he knows about the parallel countries and that they're responsible for why he used to hear England screaming out, he'd be downright terrified when faced with one of them. Especially if that one in particular is the counterpart of England, the older brother he's finally starting to see eye to eye with.
> 
> Sealand needs more appreciation in this fandom. Seriously. I really love this kid. Have I mentioned that?
> 
> Right, so, next chapter: big, big talk. Hopefully. No, maybe I should say definitely. I gotta set it in stone or I'll screw up the plan somehow. Also, turns out the whole page thing on my blog worked. I'll update that with more info in the morning, but right now I need to watch Lucifer and then get some sleep, because priorities.
> 
> Thank you for reading, hope you enjoyed, and remember to review!
> 
> Toodles!


	21. Grim Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. 'Tis I, a massive Disappointment™.
> 
> Okay, so we went past two months this time for the waiting period. Yikes. I hope the fact that this is a mega chapter and that the big talk with the other nations both compensate in some way. Seriously, this is about 2 and a half thousand words longer than my average chapters. Again, yikes.
> 
> I took so long trying to put this chapter together that I was convinced even Sherlock would come back, the Doctor Who s9 soundtrack would be released, and there would be a Stark reunion before this story was updated. One of those things actually happened.
> 
> This story is officially longer than Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. Not quite sure why I know this. Imagine if I overtook Order of the Phoenix. Holy shit.
> 
> Fun story: I've written exactly 5565 words for two important flashback scenes, then sort of realised later on upon writing some present stuff... they wouldn't fit into this chapter. This chapter is beefy enough already. And I refused to put off the big explanation scene any longer. So I essentially wasted some time and inadvertently delayed this chapter because of it. Still, I've saved myself some time and energy somewhere down the line. I hope I can use them in the next chapter.
> 
> Warnings: a traumatised child and insecurities. England's got a lot of them. Angst is more of a fleck in the distance. Strange as it seems, I actually know how to send it away sometimes lmao.
> 
> (Speaking of strange stuff, I had a revelation a couple of months ago that this story has more than one or two things in common with Stranger Things. As in, someone gets taken to a super disturbing parallel world, someone else is sort of able to communicate with them, or at the very least hear them, and people have powers- be it magic or psychokinetic. Is2g I didn't copy Stranger Things. I published this story back in 2015, before the show came out. But it kind of explains why I love Stranger Things- I clearly have a taste for that sort of thing, or I wouldn't be so invested in writing this story XD)
> 
> Also, America and France are officially England's bodyguards now, I don't make the rules. Oh wait. I do. I'm writing this story. How about that lol.
> 
> Allons-y!

 

It's strange how quickly every value that seems important to Sealand can crumble to dust within just a few minutes. How he spent decades proclaiming himself a real country, only to fiercely deny it in a desperate attempt to seem unimportant and escape Other England's clutches. How his confident and headstrong nature caved in to be replaced by the meek and feeble disposition of a terrified child. How the boiling anger inside him towards his older brothers morphed very quickly into a desperate need to reach them, to throw himself into their arms and feel safe in their embrace.

He wonders if England felt the same when he was trapped in the Other World. Perhaps. Whatever he endured, it was far worse than simply looking at someone dangerous in a mirror. Then again, he probably didn't feel this way at all. England is an adult, a nation over a thousand years old, a former empire. He's stronger, smarter and braver than Sealand could ever pretend to be, even if he tried. Which he didn't. He didn't play at being strong, or smart, or brave. He wore the truth all over him: a scared, weak little child.

He's still wearing it now.

Ignoring the nurses, Sealand pelts into Scotland's room and throws himself at the nearest person, which happens to be Wales. Sealand closes his eyes and buries his face in his brother's shirt, his hands already clinging to Wales's back.

'Whoa- Sealand, what-?'

The child tries to speak, but his words come out as a string of nonsensical gibberish. He shivers and clings on tighter to his brother.

'What happened?' Wales says immediately, completely bewildered. 'I thought you weren't talking to me? What's wrong?'

'B-bathroom,' Sealand chokes. He feels like he's going to be sick. 'In th-the bathroom.'

'What happened, lad?' comes Scotland's voice from his bed.

'… ther Eng…'

'Speak up, Sea,' Ireland's voice says gently, and Sealand feels something touching his back, right between his shoulder blades. He wrenches himself away from Wales and spins around with a little cry, shaking badly.

Ireland pulls his hand away quickly, staring at Sealand in shock. When the child turns to look at his other brothers, he recognises the look on their faces: the one they have whenever England has a freak out and is scared to come near anyone.

'… ther England,' Sealand sobs, feeling tears squeezing their way out of both his eyes.

'England? He came here? He supposed to be in the psych ward-'

'No!' Sealand wails. 'The other one! The other England!'

Silence falls over the room for a few seconds. Sealand's gaze trails over to the table beside Scotland's bed. He can see a folded piece of paper next to a glass of water and knows that it must be the list. Ireland and Wales have either read it to Scotland already, or they're about to.

'In… in the mirror,' Sealand continues with a sniffle. 'Like how th-the other America showed up w… with Scotland. When he p-pushed you.'

Ireland is the first to collect himself. 'He's here? That bastard showed up again? What did he do to yeh? Are yeh alright?'

''M fine,' Sealand murmurs, but he certainly doesn't feel fine.

'Ireland!' Wales admonishes his brother's language instinctively, shooting a glance at Sealand. He lifts his arms slightly, clearly offering Sealand another hug, but the child doesn't take it.

'I think we have bigger things to worry about than that,' Ireland retorts. He clenches his fists, his eyes fixed on the door.

'No,' Wales says immediately, realising what Ireland is thinking.

'If he's here then this is as good a time as any,' Ireland growls. 'These psychopaths have done enough. They took England, and just  _look_ what they turned him into. One of them pushed Scotland out of a goddamn window and almost killed him. And now they've gone after Sealand. He's just a  _child,_ and they tried to-'

'I'm not hurt,' Sealand says in a quivering voice.

Scotland's expression is like ice. 'Ireland's right. If even one of those monsters is here, we should try to-'

'Do  _what?'_ Wales snaps. 'What exactly are you going to do, Scotland? Are you going to miraculously get out of bed? Are you going to fight?'

 _'I'll_ bloody do it,' Ireland says. 'If one of them is here, then we have to do something. We'll make him pay.'

Sealand shivers, thinking about another debt, the one that the nations in the other world feel they owe to England. 'We're waiting to repay him for all that he gave us,' Other England had said. Sealand is still too shaken to think about whatever that could possibly be. The only thing he is truly registering right now is that his older brothers have listened to him, and they actually  _believe_ him. Scotland clearly has already read the note. They all know about the nations in the other world, and they believe it. Sealand would feel relieved, if only he weren't still shaking and his heart wasn't still hammering violently in his chest.

'He's gone,' he whispers. 'He's not in the mirror anymore. I don't think he's coming back.'

He says this with a strange amount of certainty; indeed, something gives him the feeling that Other England is most certainly done- for now.

'He won't leave for good, though,' Sealand says faintly. 'I think he had a plan for this time, and it didn't work out. So he's gone away to think of something else. And probably to tell the others in the bad world what happened.'

His brothers are simply staring at him again. 'What did he say to yeh, exactly?' Ireland asks.

'He wanted to see England. He found me instead, by mistake. That's how his plan went wrong.'

Scotland curses under his breath. 'He mighta continued searching for England. When was the last time any of yeh checked up on how England was doing?'

'We called France when we were on the way to the hospital. We told him we'd be visiting England after you,' Wales says. 'You don't think something might be happening right now...?'

'It can't hurt to check,' Ireland points out.

Wales nods and pulls his phone out.

Sealand feels himself starting to get frustrated. He knows, deep down, that Other England isn't seeking England out anymore today. He seemed peculiarly satisfied with discovering Sealand instead, like it ended up acomplishing something for him. Besides, if Other England was going to persist in looking for his counterpart, he wouldn't have bothered giving Sealand a message to deliver to England.

'I already told you, the other England isn't coming back here right now,' Sealand says. 'He didn't get what he wanted, but I think he's happy with what he did get.'

'What do yeh mean by that?' Scotland demands.

'I dunno. He just seemed pleased.' Sealand wonders if he should mention Other England's fascination in him. He probably should. But if he does, his older brothers will only grow more enraged and probably won't listen to him or anyone else at all.

Scotland, Ireland and Wales shoot each other worried glances.  _They must think I'm a target now, just like England,_  Sealand realises.  _Maybe I am. I think the other England might want to find me again._

On the other end of Wales's call, someone answers, and Wales responds immediately. 'Hey, France. How is everything over there? Is England...? ... He's awake? Oh, good. Is he, um... is he okay? Has anything happened?'

'This whole secret, about the Otherworld,' Scotland says quitely. 'France isn't in on it at all, is he?'

'As far as I'm aware, he ain't got a clue,' Ireland replies in a lowered voice. 'Canada sorta knows a bit, 'cause of what he overheard the other day. America knows pretty much everything, except... I don't think either of them know it's  _the_ Otherworld we're dealing with, though. They do know it was a parallel demension.'

Sealand glances at his eldest brother at the mention of America's name, but Scotland doesn't flinch or grow angry. He must find the list's contents and Ireland and Wales's explanations plausible, which does cheer Sealand up just a little bit.

'What about any of the other countries?' Scotland asks. 'None of them know anything about this?'

'To my knowledge, no,' Ireland says.

Wales has his back to the others as he talks to France on the phone, clearly relieved. Nothing bad has happened over in the psych ward, just as Sealand predicted. The child squirms restlessly. 'I told you,' he says to Ireland. 'I told you it's fine. No one ever listens to me.'

'We are listening,' Ireland insists. 'We believe yeh, Sealand. We're calling just to be sure, because we're worried. We can't risk letting anything else happen to England. Yeh understand?'

Sealand nods numbly.

'Right. Okay. Thank you.' Wales ends the call and turns to face the others. 'France says everything's fine. England had one bad dream, but he handled it well. No panicking or anything. America is there and Italy has just arrived for a visit.'

Once again, Sealand looks at Scotland, but the elder nation apart from a little frown of discomfort, he says nothing.

'As long as he's safe,' the redhead mutters.

'I think yeh're missing the bigger picture here,' Ireland says. 'This is all getting too regular. Sure, things have quietened down over the last couple of days, but I would argue that's 'cause England's been outta action. Trouble's brewing again.'

Wales shoots him a glare. 'You had better not be blaming this on England.'

'No, of course not,' Ireland scoffs. 'What I'm saying is, these bastards in the Otherworld have some weird obsession with him. They're not done with him. But they don't seem to be that interested in him when he's out cold, do they? They like screwing with his head and sending bad shit after him, and they kinda need him to be awake to react to it all. Now that he's properly awake again, they'll carry on with their sick little game.'

As always, Wales seems concerned that Sealand is present to hear this; whether it's because of the swearing, or because he thinks Sealand might find what Ireland has to say frightening, the micronation isn't sure.

'Perhaps now's not the best time...' Wales begins.

'They're gonna start showing up more and more,' Sealand says, ignoring the middle brother. He's still feeling faint and shaky, but he can be a bit braver now- or at least act like it.

Ireland nods, and Sealand is glad that at least someone is treating him like more than just an oblivious child. 'They're not just targeting England- they've gone after Scotland and now Sealand, too, even if they weren't deliberately looking for the lad. Wales and I could easily be next. And do yeh think they're gonna draw the line at our family? That entity that attacked the G8 went after everyone there, didn't it? These monsters in the Otherworld could potentially target anyone connected to England, anyone near him.'

'Probably best if we don't mention that last part to England,' Scotland points out. 'He'll definitely see that as good cause to distance himself again.'

'Oh believe me, it's already occured to him,' Ireland says darkly. 'Yeh should have heard him in the park, telling the fae how he thought he might be a danger to everyone. What I'm trying to say is, we can't delay this any longer- we need to tell the rest of G8 everything we know,  _now._ We don't know when the next bad thing might happen, or who it might happen to. Everyone needs to be prepared. And for that, everyone should know exactly what we're dealing with.'

Wales shifts uneasily. 'I agree, but how are we going to do this? Should we ask them all to come here? I mean, one of these nations in the Otherworld just showed up right here, for crying out loud. I know you're pretty certain this other version of England isn't interested in coming back today, Sea, but he might change his mind if a bunch of us gather here. What if they send another entity or-'

'Yeh could arrange a meetup outside the hospital, yeh know,' Scotland says. 'I know they won't let me out, but I don't mind not being there. As long as yeh're there, and yeh tell them everything-'

'We'll need England,' Wales says.

'Will we?'

'Yes. It's all very well, us telling everyone everything we know so far, but England's the one with the actual experience. He might not remember much yet, but it's clear that some pretty violent, traumatising memories have returned to him- enough to enlighten him on how bad these other nations really are. He's the only one who can truly tell us what we're up against.'

'I think the rest of us got the general gist of how bad these other nations are when they send a homicidal entity after the G8, pushed Scotland out of a building and caused England to completely break down and end up in a psych ward,' Ireland mutters. 'Plus, think of what they could have done to Sealand. That was such a close call.'

Sealand feels a little embarassed. Next to almost being killed by a malevolent spirit, falling seventy feet onto concrete and all those horrors he heard England screaming about in his dreams, everything that caused him to fall to pieces inside his head, the little incident in the bathroom doesn't seem all that significant or menacing. All of a sudden, he feels like a stupid little kid.

'England needs to help explain this to everyone,' Wales continues. 'He needs to decide exactly what he's comfortable telling everyone-'

'Look, I'm all for respecting England's boundaries,' Ireland interrupts. 'But this is to ensure everyone's safety, Wales. I'm sure England would approve of it. He's clearly ready to start sharing, or he wouldn't have offered us the list.'

'He might have more he wishes to say. More than just what's on the list. I think he should be present for this. And I think we should do it here, like we tried to do last time. They'll never let a large group of people have a meeting in the psych ward and they likely won't let England leave the hospital, but they might be convinced into letting him visit a family member in another ward. And that way, everyone, including Scotland and England, can be present for this.'

'What, let England be the centre of another big meetup? With a bunch of people in a room with him? His track record of staying calm around people hasn't been too good lately.'

'Shouldn't you just ask him what he wants?' Sealand asks quietly.

Wales breaks off from the argument and glances at Sealand. 'I... yes. I think that's fair. England would prefer that.'

'We should contact someone in the G8 and tell them we're potentially meeting up,' Ireland suggests. 'People need to be given notice. Germany, maybe. He's the one who organises everyone.'

Wales nods, his fingers already tapping away at a message on his phone. 'I'll tell France to ask England if it's okay to meet as soon as possible. There will probably be an issue getting England out the psych ward, if he says yes. I'll tell Germany if England approves of this, and we can sort out the details.'

Sealand's stomach twists in excitement. Not only is his family listening to him, but everyone's about to find out the truth. And this won't be like the other day, when they all thought they'd finally have everything explained to them, only for it to all go horribly wrong in that outburst. Maybe this time, things will be different. Maybe this time, it will work.

Sealand is so caught up in these thoughts that he only just catches Scotland's next words, being muttered under his breath to Wales.

'Make sure Germany brings England's knife.' At Wales's raised eyebrows, Scotland adds, 'Just in case.'

* * *

'Somehow,' France says dryly, 'I don't imagine anyone will be particularly pleased with this. We're all already on thin ice with the 'ospital staff.'

'Y-you'll want to w… watch out there,' England advises him. 'You're starting t-to sound c… concerned again. It d-doesn't suit you.'

'I see those five years did absolutely nothing for your petulance, Angleterre,' France remarks snidely. 'Must you remain so insolent?'

'I've b-been in a bed for over t… two days,' England replies. 'And I've had it w-with hospitals. Budge.'

He squeezes his way past America and France, reluctant to make physical contact, as that's really not been working out for him with anyone recently. The floor is cool and smooth between his feet, and very, very solid. England imagines it certainly won't be nice to fall on, so he opts to stay standing no matter how dizzy he feels. America gets to his feet too and his hands hover by his sides, seemingly ready to rise up and hold England in place, should he tumble. Aside from his ever present sense of discomfort, a part of England does find this strangely reassuring. And just a little touching.

On the other side of his bed is Italy, who arrived a few minutes beforehand to visit briefly. Unlike America, he successfully managed to sneak some snacks in undetected, and also brought a rather thoughtful bouquet of get well soon flowers. He squirms uneasily as England sways slightly. 'Ah, I think big brother France is right. The others said it was super duper important that you stay here until you're all better-'

'We'll be w… waiting a while for th-that,' England mutters under his breath, knowing that there's realistically no way he'll be healing substantially within the rest of the time they have left in the States. He'd have to sort his head out for that, and, well… well it just won't be happening. For a long time. Period. He's accepted that much.

'But the nurses might get mad,' Italy adds, looking nervous. 'People might start shouting and I really hate shouting. And so do you now, right?'

When England glances at him questioningly, Italy continues, 'Well, the other day when we went to visit Scotland, you got all upset when everyone started yelling at once and then you and America ran-' He breaks off when France shakes his head deliberately. For their sake (something he would vehemently deny taking into consideration if he had any spare energy for it), England pretends not to notice.

'Your frères will be 'ere soon,' France tries again. England completely ignores him. 'They said on the phone that they're visiting Écosse first, and then they'll likely 'ead over 'ere. If it's just a bite to eat you want, you don't have to go to the café. We can bring you something.'

'You'd b-be so kind?' England says mockingly, not buying it.

France rolls his eyes. 'If it will get you to shut up, oui. Let me guess- you want tea? I can go and get tea.'

'No. I'll c-come. I can do th… that, right?'

'Probably not,' America pipes up. 'I'm pretty sure they want you to stay in this ward.'

'We have IDs,' Italy says enthusiastically, and then his face falls. 'Though I think I left mine in my hotel room. Or maybe Germany has it. He's always looking after all my important documents because I lose stuff very easily…'

France smiles. 'Angleterre doesn't 'ave an ID on 'im either.'

'No, of c-course not,' England says dryly. 'I'm a psych n… nutjob now.'

Instead of laughing, France remains oddly serious, though he does roll his eyes. 'Don't say that. I would argue you've been, as you so eloquently put it, a 'nutjob', for at least most of your life. 'Onestly, you can be quite mad at times. Your notions are definitely ridiculous.'

England narrows his eyes at him. 'How, exactly?'

Surprisingly, it's America who answers. 'You think you're here 'cause you're crazy. You're not crazy, and if you were, that wouldn't be why you're here. People come to places like this because they need help. That's why you're here.'

Moments of true seriousness are few and far between for America, and they never fail to shock England. He responds to it the way he always used to, with sardonic humour.

'Perhaps you b… both need to b-be admitted,' he says. 'You're acting v-very strange, the p-pair of y… you. I think  _y… you've_  both gone mad.'

This is almost confirming something he now fears- that they're being uncharacteristically nice to him, all because they've seen him cry less than an hour ago, following that memory he woke up from. He had dried his tears by the time Italy arrived, but France and America still saw them. This all ties in with how careful everyone has been acting towards him- all gentle and cautious. It makes him incredibly uncomfortable.

Italy, meanwhile, is completely oblivious to the mood. 'You don't have to go to the café! I brought snacks, remember?'

'I n… need the walk,' England says, just as France's phone begins to ring.  _Things need to go back to normal. If I'm going to recover, I can't rest forever._

France answers it quickly, likely concerned that a doctor or a nurse will enter the room and accuse him of disturbing the peace.

'Oh, bonjour,' he greets. 'Oui, it's all fine 'ere. 'E's awake now.' He looks a little surprised, presumably because of the frantic voice that England can only just hear on the other end. He can't make out what the voice is saying, but he recognises it as Wales.

''E's fine,' France continues, looking at England. 'Just one bad dream, but 'e 'andled it.'

England sends him a glare, but he supposes it isn't particularly an invasion of privacy. France even looks a little apologetic.

'That was strange,' France says as he ends the call. ''E only phoned about 'alf an 'our ago, on the way to the 'ospital.'

'He sounded a bit upset,' America points out.

'I think 'e 'ad reason to believe something was wrong over 'ere,' France says, thoroughly confused.

 _He's read the list,_ England thinks.  _Scotland and Ireland probably have as well by now. They'll want to talk to me as soon as possible about it._

Sure enough, around fifteen minutes have passed when America's phone buzzes with a text alert and he pulls it out his pocket. 'Well, dude, you're in luck,' America says. 'Germany says Wales wants there to be some big meet-up here at the hospital. Apparently Ireland and Wales are arranging it. I think we have to go over to Scotland's ward.'

'On the condition that you consent to it,' France adds, looking down at his own phone. Wales must have messaged him instead of calling this time. 'Your frères wish to know if you're comfortable with... 'the big talk', as they've put it. Presumably the one we all attempted the other day.'

England stares forward, his heart pumping a little faster than before. It can certainly be said that he's in a much better condition than he has been over the last two days, and perhaps he is also in a better place mentally than he was last time he tried telling the other nations the truth, even if he has since been exposed to particularly violent memories and is currently in a psych ward. He may be even more damaged than before, but he's grown a little more trusting of the other nations- at least, he's stopped believing that certain individuals are trying to kill him, which is certainly an improvement. He's grown more comfortable with being in their presence (not that he's had much choice), and their surprising levels of empathy have been both nice and disturbing, mostly because he still finds it difficult to conceive that they are concerned for him.

He'll see everyone's true colours if he goes through with this. He'll know who he can really trust once he puts all his cards on the table. So far, he knows he has America, Sealand and Ireland. It sounds as if Scotland and Wales are onboard too. Maybe with their support, his story will sound a little more believable to everyone else.

'T-tell them yes,' he says, his throat dry. 'I'm r... ready.'

France responds to Wales immediately with England's reply.

Another ten minutes pass, and it's all been arranged; the meeting shall be in the hospital, exactly where they intended to hold it last time, in Scotland's ward. England leans against the wall beside his bed and twists his fingers around each other nervously. He's very much aware that the same thing could happen again this time- that something will freak him out, that everyone will get upset, that America will be hurt in some way... except that last one is less likely to happen, because America is aware of what England truly meant. England gulps a little when the final text from Wales comes, confiming that it's all been arranged and everyone is heading over to the hospital. He decides to distract himself from the growing dread by focusing on his present issue.

'Moment of t… truth- will they let m-me out?' England asks dramatically, like it's some big mystery that's about to be solved. Out of the corner of his eye, he spots America smirking, and is at least a little glad that his overly sarcastic nature has returned properly and is amusing his former colony.

'Germany's saying the same thing,' Italy announces, peering at his own phone. 'He wants to know if there will be any trouble getting England out of this ward.'

'We'll soon find out,' France replies.

* * *

The staff are unhappy with the idea of England leaving the ward, even if he's remaining in the hospital. They're even more displeased when France requests that there be no supervision from any doctors or nurses during England's outing. They finally settle with him leaving the ward, as long as they have a chance to evaluate his current state to determine whether he's ready or not.

While Italy races off to see if the other members of the G8 have arrived at the hospital yet, America and France wait for England outside the room he's being assessed in. The doctor who is in there with him said that it shouldn't last much longer than fifteen minutes, perhaps twenty at the most.

'You want to get an assessment too?' America teases after a few minutes of silence. 'Iggy seems to think we're both crazy.'

'Of course 'e does,' France says. ''E doesn't really know 'ow to deal with concern.'

'Well, it's kinda weird, you know,' America points out. 'You, showing it. For England of all people.'

'I could say the same to you,' France responds. His words sound as if they should have a bite to them, but his tone is light.

'I'm much nicer to England than you,' America challenges him. 'Even if I just used to be crap at showing it.'

This is just one of the many England-related things America has dwelt on over the past five years. Now that England has returned, America has decided to be a little more open with his concern. Maybe he should have started with actually admitting they're friends to England's face. That was something he never got around to doing, and he's not sure England ever did read between the lines on that front. Showing he cares was the first step. Unfortunately, it seems to be weirding England out.

France watches him with a strange expression. 'You've grown up a bit, you know,' he says at last.

America tilts his head to the side. 'You think so?'

'You're not determined to hide it anymore.'

'Hide what?'

France gives a knowing smirk. 'That you care. You really missed 'im.'

'So did you,' America says bluntly.

'Oui. Who would 'ave thought it?' France gives a low chuckle. 'It turns out I do care. A lot, it would seem.'

'Oh my God…' A massive grin splits across America's face. 'Can you, like, say that again? And let me record it? 'Cause no one's gonna believe me otherwise.'

'Pft. Stupid American.'

Less than thirty seconds later, England emerges from the other room, looking weary but fairly triumphant, which confirms that he has been granted permission to leave.

'Two hours at the most,' the doctor calls out, appearing in the doorway with a less than pleased expression. 'And remember to sign in and out.'

England averts his gaze from America for a few seconds and seems rather hesitant with his approach, all traces of his small burst of confidence evaporating. It dawns on the younger nation that perhaps England is having another hallucination, and instead of internally priding himself on reading the atmosphere, America only feels dread and worry. England has only  _just_ been classed healthy enough to leave the ward, and it's awful to think that he may be just about to prove the doctors wrong.

_Say something you would say. Be yourself._

'Dude,' America says immediately, 'you are not gonna  _believe_ what France said while you were in there.'

''Onestly, I 'ave no idea what 'e's talking about-'

'He totally admitted that missed you, Iggy, and that he cares! And I think he was serious, too. I wanted to record it for proof and stuff, but he wouldn't let me-'

'I take back what I said about you growing up,' France growls, but amusement flickers in his eyes. 'You are a  _child.'_

England glances at America hesitantly, and then a nervous yet relieved smile appears on his face. 'Is th-that so?' he asks softly.

America feels like punching the air in victory.

* * *

As England and the other two approach the door to Scotland's room, they begin to overhear hushed voices from inside.

'... When he arrives, try not to ask too many questions about his health. Just one 'how are you' should do it. Any more than that and he'll get agitated.'

Wales sounds quite agitated himself, clearly trying to brief everyone on how he thinks they should behave when England walks in. The other nations must all be there, waiting for England, America and France to show up.

The three stand outside the door. The other nations haven't realised that they are in fact here already, and England debates on whether he should wait a little longer outside, or walk inside now and get it over with. The latter will certainly make it awkward for everyone, if they realise he can hear everything they're saying.

'What's wrong with showing our concern?' Japan asks. 'I mean, I know England-san finds these sorts of things uncomfortable, but perhaps he'll feel more content if he knows we're all supportive.'

'That might work on literally anyone else, but he's difficult,' Ireland pipes up. England scowls. 'He has trouble buying that sorta thing. He gets paranoid that people are lying whenever anyone's nice to him. He's already gonna be pretty self-conscious about the fact that he's... yeh know, in a psych ward.'

'Worst case scenario, he'll be wondering why no one's laughed at him yet,' Scotland adds.

'And no yelling, for God's sake,' Wales says. 'He was panicking last time, and we were all too busy shouting to notice. Even if America hadn't fled, England probably would have run off anyway.'

England doesn't know whether to be offended or mildly impressed that his brothers know exactly how his mind works. When he turns to look at the other two to see what they make of it, France gives a weak smile, shrugs, and quietly says, 'Well, they're not wrong.'

America, on the other hand, seems to grow a little apprehensive about entering the room when Scotland speaks. He bites his lip and winces uneasily.

'He kn-knows you're innocent now,' England whispers. 'I m... made sure of it.' Whether Scotland believes it is a different matter, but England isn't about to mention that part.

America tilts his head. 'How? You've haven't left your ward until now.'

'Sealand. And a l-list. Long story. Sh... shall we get this over with?' he adds, this time for France as well.

'Might as well,' France replies, pushing on the door.

The nations inside all go quiet when the three enter the room, and England immediately hates it. He wonders if they're feeling just as uncomfortable as him; after all, they're probably wondering if he heard what they were just discussing.

'Y-yes, I did.' England decides not to beat around the bush. If they're not going to try and diffuse the tension and make it more casual, then he will.

'Did what?' Wales asks.

'Hear what y-you were saying. J-just thought I'd c... clear it up.' England rolls his eyes and makes his way over to temporary bed he used beforehand so he can sit down.

Everyone looks overly uncomfortable at getting caught, and England admittedly feels a little smug; if the situation weren't so severe, and if they had been saying something negative about him instead of discussing how to make him feel more content, he definitely would have said something along the lines of  _serves you all right_. As it happens, he's only really trying to break the ice. If they see he isn't too fazed, they should relax.

'Well...  _are_ yeh feeling better?' Scotland breaks the silence.

'I haven't had a b... breakdown in t-two whole days,' England says abruptly. He feels a little giddy. 'I'd say so.' He fixes everyone in the room with a harsh stare, daring anyone to look pitying. His brothers are right: he won't tolerate being treated as fragile, and he sure as hell won't allow mockery. Not that there is any, or has been at all since this all begun. England still can't quite wrap his head around that.

The countries have all chosen spots around the room to sit, both on available seats and on neighbouring beds. France and America both take a seat too, America between England and Canada, and France on the other side of the room, in a spot near Scotland's bed.

England peers closely at his brothers' faces, trying to decide if his hopes are true and they really do believe what they've read on the list. All he can make out is stress, however, with a little hint of relief when they look back at him. The only one who truly gives anything out of the ordinary away is Sealand; the young micronation isn't looking at anyone at all, but is instead curled up on a chair next to Wales with his knees pressed to his chest and his eyes fixed on the floor. England can't make out much of his face, as most of it is pressed into his folded arms, but he can just distinguish quite a meek, haunted look in the child's eyes.

'What happened?' he asks straight away. 'What's th-the emergency?'

Ireland gives him a strange look. 'How'd yeh know there's an emergency?'

'So there  _is_  o... one?' England clarifies.

'You sounded a little agitated on the phone,' France tells Wales. 'We made our assumptions.'

'Since when was there an emergency?' Germany asks. 'You told me this gathering was to continue the discussion we all attempted to have the other day.'

'That's our main focus, yeah,' Scotland says. 'But something else happened as well, which we'll get to afterwards.'

'It's… it's important,' Wales admits. 'But it's not going to be understandable for everyone until we're all on the same page.'

 _So, whatever it is, it's somehow related to the Otherworld,_ England deduces immediately. He feels cold. There can't have been another attack, and if there was one, it clearly wasn't successful; after all, everyone is present, and no one seems hurt. At least, not physically. England's eyes drift over to Sealand again, and the way Wales seems to hover ever so close to his side, his hand even resting on Sealand's chair almost protectively.

Beside England, America too seems to have notices that something is amiss with the young micronation. He mouths the words  _you okay, dude?_ but Sealand just shakes his head and curls up even tighter.

'What h… happened?' England repeats. He doesn't care if the story sounds unbelievable and confusing to the various other nations in the room.

'Listen,' Scotland says in his  _stop-being-difficult_ voice that he seems to reserve only for England. 'No one's in danger now, to the extent of our knowledge-'

'So there w-was danger b… before?'

'England,' Wales pleads. 'Just…'

'Fine.' If there truly is no danger now (which he doesn't believe- but then, he always thinks there's danger nowadays), he can drop it until he's finished his part. 'I see y… you've read the list.'

He adds a mouthed  _thank you_ to Sealand, but he's not sure if the micronation spots it.

'Yep,' Ireland replies.

'What is the list?' Russia asks.

'Something England wrote for us,' Wales explains. 'For his family. It explains what he remembers so far: where he was and who his kidnappers were. It's all pretty extraordinary- not in a good way. I think…' His eyes meet with England's. 'I think he was concerned that the rest of you would find it hard to believe, on account of it being quite… supernatural.'

England bows his head slightly in confirmation. He knows the other nations' eyes are on him right now, and he doesn't particularly want to look at their faces.

'First things first,' Germany says. 'We were informed that your memories from since you returned have been restored.'

'Yes.'

'You know what year it is?' Japan clarifies.

This is a topic he's been trying to avoid since the drugs wore off and he woke up. This is something he will barely even allow himself to  _think_ about. Honestly, this feels almost embarrassing. It seems absurd now, to have managed to forget not only five years, but all the time since he came back. And perhaps it's even more absurd, that every time England wakes up a part of him prays that he truly had been rescued, that he's mistaken in thinking it's been five years since then, that everything that's happening now is just a dream he has woken up from.

If only he could have stayed ignorant for a little while long. But even if he can't see their faces, he knows how they're all looking at him. He can't just pretend otherwise.

'Y... yeah,' he whispers, keenly aware of how dull his own voice sounds. '2015.'

The other nations seem satisfied with his response. England wishes he could share their relief, but it feels impossible. The thought of them all coming to save him had filled with joy, but his little fantasy had been cut down mercilessly; and try as he might, ignoring the thought of it can't work anymore. Once again, like a little crack has appeared in his mind and water is beginning to gush out, his vision blurs with welling tears, and by this point he can barely care whether they fall or not.

'There was something you mentioned when you couldn't remember much,' Russia says unexpectedly. England still doesn't look up, and wonders if Russia is giving his usual smile or wearing the more serious faces he dons on occasion. 'When we asked what the last thing you remember was, you said something about being torn apart.'

Suddenly, England is not here. He is five years in the past, far, far away,  _being swept up into the jaws of a wolf, with the teeth clamping down on his skin-_

'Russia!' someone hisses, and quite a few people shift uncomfortably.

'I'm sure we are all curious,' Russia continues. 'Da, it is certainly an unfavourable topic. But if England does not get upset, we will know he is capable of handling bad topics. It makes discussing sensitive issues easier. Not like it how it all ended up last time. Last time it all went wrong because of a misunderstanding, da?'

England breaths in shakily. He's definitely getting upset, he can feel it. But he supposes what really matters is how he handles it. Even if it's not the answer Russia and the others want, it's something else entirely, something more important to him. It's showing strength.

'No,' he says, very firmly. He just hopes the garbled connection between his scattered thoughts and his mouth will strengthen, just a little bit. The constant stuttering is just one more thing that annoys him. One more thing he's paranoid that someone will mock him about.

'But… how?' Germany asks, his voice a lot softer than usual. 'What exactly do you mean by that-?'

Half of his vision contains the other countries watching him with their serious, pitying faces, the other half is consumed by flashes of  _sharp teeth and hot blood spraying everywhere-_

'No,' England says again, finally looking up at the others. 'Not n-now. Not that.' He may remember where he is and how much time has passed and what's going on, but that doesn't make his any less ready to talk about the wolves. He may be fragile in the head and delusional about almost everything, be it his hallucinations or his lasting distrust in others, but that doesn't mean he can't put his foot down and decide if and when he discusses what happened on that night five years ago.

Russia's face is mostly blank, but England spots a lingering element of respect. He hasn't answered the question, but he's proved himself strong anyway by taking charge.

'Alright,' Wales says gently. 'Okay. Later, maybe?'

England nods, though he's not sure there will ever be a later for something like that.

'You are still ready to talk, England-san? About the things you wanted to tell us all about?' Japan says.

England is briefly overwhelmed with the urge to halt this discussion before it's all out in the open. He forces the feeling away immediately. He can't be getting cold feet now. It's time.

'I n... need to explain,' he announces. 'It's t-taken me long e... enough.'

The chase and the wolves need to go. He can't be thinking about that. He'll break down again if he dwells on it any longer. He can't afford to do that, not when he's dead set on proving that he can handle the goings on inside his head. He closes his eyes very briefly and pushes it as far away from him as possible inside his mind, burying it as best he can with all the other thoughts that come rushing in for the explanation he's finally going to give. And he knows it won't work properly; trying not to think about something is nearly impossible. But maybe, with enough distractions, he might just manage.

'The place th-that I ended up in, b... back in 2-2010,' he begins. 'It, um...' The chances of everyone believing him seem quite slim, but England can hardly care by this point. At least there's several others in the room now who could back him up.

'You remember where it was?' Germany asks.

'I've k... known for a l-little while now,' England says. 'There was n-never a good time t... to say. And I knew it w-would seem t... too impossible f... for you all.'

'Try us,' Russia says simply.

England's eyes find Ireland's. He's the one who's seen and heard the worst of what England's dealing with, having been in the park on that morning. The elder gives his younger brother an encouraging nod of the head.

England turns to Wales, and then to Scotland as he talks. 'I don't know if y-you've figured out the r... reason you couldn't sense m-me when I disappeared. M-my life force really w... was c-cut off from this w... world. They severed it f-from my l-land and people w... when they t-took me. Basically, the equivalent of b-being dead.'  _A perfectly logical mistake to make,_ he adds internally, but he doesn't want his brothers thinking he's comfortable with his death announcement now.

'We've gathered that much,' Wales confirms.

''They'? And 'ow is that even possible?' France asks.

'I was c... cut off from this world b-because I w... wasn't part of it anymore. I wasn't here.'

'And he doesn't mean, like, he went to the moon or anything,' America adds quickly, and England shoots him a glare that isn't nearly as filthy as it would usually be. Honestly, America's comment diffused the tension massively and was very America-like on top of that, and England is secretly grateful.

'What do you mean you weren't part of this world anymore?' Japan says immediately. 'I'm sorry, but I don't follow.'

But Germany has focused on something else. He turns on America. 'You knew where he was? I thought the British Isles were the only ones who saw this list. How come you know more than us?'

This is bad, England believes immediately. He feels as if he can almost see the cogs turning in the other nations' heads as they draw their conclusions what this might mean. Perhaps someone of them did believe the story Scotland told them about America. Or perhaps he is once again allowing his mind to spin wild, paranoid theories. 'He had n... nothing to do w-with it,' England says quickly.

'England, we know,' Canada says calmly, although he and a few of the others cast worried glances at Scotland.

Scotland himself doesn't seem affected in the slightest. Without looking at the others, he simply nods his head at England, urging him to continue.

'I j-just… I wasn't sure if-'

'No one's throwing blame at anyone in this room today,' Scotland says abruptly. This really does get stares now.

'Not even from you, Écosse?' France says boldly.

Scotland's face is like stone. 'We're all here to listen to England's story. That's it.'

Next to England, America breathes a very small sigh of relief.

'But just out of curiosity,' Russia says pleasantly to England, once again bluntly going for a sensitive topic, 'why did you say the other day that you believed Scotland when he-'

'All I meant,' England says through gritted teeth, scared that the nations might cause another uproar if he doesn't handle this carefully, 'is th-that I understand why Scotland w-would  _think_  that. And I w-would have explained  _why_ if y... you all hadn't started sh... shouting.'

The nations look a little abashed by this, and are all thankfully silent. England continues, 'It all t-ties in together. And I'll g-get to that. But first... the  _other_  w... world.' He scans all their faces for incredulity or ridicule, but finds nothing other than confusion. So they don't actually disbelieve him. Yet.

'What exactly do you mean by another world, England-san?' Japan asks politely.

'The entity. I t-told you all it came from the m… mirror. It's always the reflections, l… like those g-glass sheets when Scotland fell.'

'What is?' Italy says.

'Another d… dimension. The sort of p-place where c-creatures like the entity dwell. The O... Otherworld.  _The_ Otherworld,' England says pointedly, focusing on his brothers again because he knows they already understand this part.

'Another world,' Germany says slowly. It doesn't sound like a question, but more of a shocked statement. England's stomach twists anxiously as he looks round the room at the other nations. They're all staring at him in shock. He can't spot belief  _or_  disbelief yet. He supposes they probably need a bit of time to process it.

Wales's expression is soft, a comforting sight at this time. 'You're certain it's  _the_ Otherworld?'

'A... Absolutely. How many dimensions d-do we even kn… know of, anyway?'

'I didn't know it was possible to go there,' Scotland pipes up. 'I mean, there's all those theories about goin' there when yeh die, but when yeh're  _alive?_  That's just... that must've been-'

'Hell,' England says, his voice hoarse. 'Yes.'

'Wait, just 'old on a second,' France puts in, raising his hands to his head. 'Another  _world._ That's… that's…'

'Unbelievable? Yeah, p… probably,' England says dejectedly. He's losing hope, fast.

'Sorry, but... what exactly is the Otherworld?' Canada asks. Many of the others look equally as confused, yet somehow Canada isn't quite as surprised as them about the whole thing.

'Like England said, it's another dimension,' Ireland replies, fixing England with a rather worried look. 'We've always believed that it might be some kinda afterlife, if yeh believe in that sorta thing. It's got a nickname 'hell' for a reason. Whatever it is, we know it's the one that demons live in. That entity that attacked yeh all, that woulda come from the Otherworld. It got through the mirror, didn't it? That's how creatures like that get into this world from theirs: through reflections. And with a lot of dark magic on top of that.'

'And that's where you were?' France asks England. He seems serious, and not as if he's going to laugh and accuse England of making up stories. No one's making fun of England. It's so surreal, England's not entirely sure he isn't still unconscious and he's merely dreaming.

He looks up from his shaking hands and surveys the group. 'You b... believe m-me?'

'Well, we all saw the entity,' Germany says, nodding at the other members of the G8. He seems uncomfortable, though not in a disbelieving way; more in a way that suggests that he  _is_ taking this seriously, and he only  _wishes_  it weren't true. 'That thing attacked us. If something like that can exist, then... well, it must have come from somewhere.'

'Besides,' Japan says, 'what reason would you have to lie? After whatever it is you've been through, what would you gain from it? Yes, England-san. We believe you. Or I do, anyway,' he adds, casting meaningful looks at the other countries.

'You d-don't think I'm j... just crazy?' England presses on.

'Yeh're not crazy,' Ireland says. 'Yeh've just been through some shit. There's a difference.'

'B-but I am h... hallucinating,' England admits. 'I'm sure y-you all know th... that. And there's a r... reason for it. The Otherworld isn't l-like w-what we always thought it w... was. It's... very d-different to h... how those of us who kn-knew of it imagined it to b-be.'

'How so?' Russia asks.

He may have them believing so far, but he doubts they'll want to after this part. 'I... I l-lied about the m-mirror. When I w... went to examine it t-to see if I c... could find traces on it. I d-did.'

'You recognised it?' Italy says, eyes wide open. 'Who was it?'

At the risk of causing an uproar like the one last time with his answer, England very reluctantly says, 'Me.'

When no one speaks (England is not sure which is worse- everyone yelling or everyone waiting in horrified silence), he continues, 'The magic on th-the shards was m-mine. But d... different. Twisted. I d-didn't do it. B... But someone l-like me did. Someone almost e... exactly like m-me.'

'Other you,' America says very quietly, and England is quite impressed. He's always known that America isn't half as dim-witted as he likes to act. The young nation really does have his moments. Of course, America knows the world England was in is parallel- England was determined beforehand to make that abundantly clear before he passed out. He also has a sneaking suspicion that America has formed a way of chasing England's delusions out of his head- England suffered from a brief hallucination earlier as he was leaving the psych ward, and the younger nation seemed to recognise it, because he then started joking around playfully, making the difference between himself and his counterpart as clear as ever.

'Y-yes,' England says. 'Other m-me.'

'What does that mean?' Italy inquires, glancing around as if anyone can offer him an answer.

'Parallel,' Canada breathes in realisation, and England peers up at him in bewilderment.

'You k-know about that?'

Canada seems quite bashful now. 'Ireland and I found you and America just as you were about to pass out. You probably didn't see us. We didn't mean to eavesdrop but we did hear you mention something about this other world... and about it being parallel.'

'Sorry- parallel?' Germany splutters. 'As in identical? First, we find out there's some other dimension out there, then you tell us it's parallel?'

'I'm n-not lying,' England says hotly.

Germany quickly regains his composure. 'No, I'm not suggesting that.'

'It's just… this is all very surprising, England-san,' Japan adds. 'It's a lot to take in.'

'Parallel,' France echoes. 'Like... with other versions of everything in this world? Other versions of our cities, other versions of our lands-'

'Other v-versions of u... us,' England finishes quietly, flashes of bright blue and burning red eyes crossing through his head.

'The people who took you... were parallel versions of... us?' Japan asks, his eyes open wide.

 _They believe me. Who would have thought it?_ England bites his lip. 'Th... they're not l-like us. They have o-our names, our b-basic appearances, our r-roles as nations... as far as I'm aware. B-but that's it. I only r... remember two of them so f-far. But if the others are a... anything like them, th... then... they're b-bad. Very, v-very bad. Their w-world is bad. It's b... broken and sick to th... the c-core.'

'What do you mean by that?' France asks uneasily.

'It's just…' England closes his eyes. 'They're cruel. Worse than us. Like th-they're living through the d… darkest part of their history. Except they w-weren't being m… made to by their people. I d-don't remember even seeing any humans.' He thinks of London burning, and how Other England told him the people were responsible. 'They were out there s… somewhere, d-doing terrible things as w-well. The n-nations in that world were intent of… c-causing destruction, I th-think, and th-they're not stopping now. I may have c-come back here, b-but that hasn't stopped th-them from c… coming after me. That n-never stopped them from sending the entity, or f… from attacking Scotland.'

'It was the other America who pushed Scotland then, I assume,' Russia says. He sounds incredibly intrigued.

'Which is what led Scotland to believe…' Germany says, beginning to realise.

'Yeah,' Scotland says. His face is flushed.

'It is strange that you were both right and wrong,' Russia says, almost as if he's a little amused.

'So, my other self is a total psycho,' America mutters. 'Great.'

'It sounds as if they all are,' Canada murmurs.

'P-possibly,' England says. 'L-like I said, I only r… remember two of them so far.'

'The other Amérique being one of them, presumably?' France guesses. 'And the other being… you?'

England nods, beginning to feel a little lightheaded, either from the shock of them all believing or perhaps because he's not well enough to be up for this long. He decides not to mention anything.

'What did the other me do to you?' America says quietly.

England stares at him. His hands are starting to shake again. He swears he can feel a tingling sensation over the parts of his skin where the scars reside.

'I'm assuming your hallucinations have involved… remembering the other America, in some form or other, often when you look at this America,' Wales puts in.  _Which is why you've been extremely uncomfortable around him,_ is the part that goes unsaid among the nations.

'It must have been pretty bad,' America continues, his voice a lot lower than usual. His eyes won't meet England's. 'Whatever it was he did to you.'

England swallows anxiously and turns to America, shaking his head slightly.  _Later._ America seems to get the message, and thankfully goes quiet.

'I've got about a m-month and a half of m… memory back so far. Up until around C-Christmas.' England glances at Sealand again to see if the child might offer his input, but he stays completely silent. This is too odd. Sealand should be jumping at the opportunity to finally announce that he knew more than them all along, and that everyone should have listened to him, but instead he's still curled up on his chair, his face mostly hidden.

'What happened?' England asks one more time.

Upon realising that he is addressing his younger brother, the other nations turn and look down at the micronation curiously. England instantly regrets this, not wanting to draw attention to the clearly distressed child, so he focuses on his older brothers instead.

'What w-was the emergency?' he demands.

'Well… now that we've got everything else out the way, I guess we should explain,' Scotland begins awkwardly. 'There was an incident. With a mirror. And yer, uh… counterpart.'

'The bad England?' Italy says nervously. England secretly wonders if this makes him the 'good' England. That doesn't sound right at all, especially coming from someone who used to be terrified of him like Italy. But then, times are changing. Italy came to visit him today, and even brought those flowers. Maybe he is the good England now, especially next to his counterpart.

 _You're not good,_ says a nasty little voice in his head.  _They made you one of them. Your soul is still tethered to their world, just like the fae said._

Although worryingly tempting, England thinks that smacking his head against something solid won't be received well among the other nations, and so he resists the urge profusely.

'He w-was here?' he asks quietly.

'He didn't hurt anyone,' Ireland says. 'Just gave Sea a bit of a fright.'

There's a sinking feeling in England's stomach. 'You saw him?' he croaks.

'The other England was here?' Canada asks apprehensively, casting a nervous glance around the room as if expecting to still find him here.

'He's gone now,' Ireland says. 'We don't think he'll be returning today. But… we figured yeh should all have a heads up on this: I don't think any of us are safe. These other nations, they mean business. We ain't exactly sure what said business is, but yeh all need to be prepared. Yeh've all seen what they're capable of doing so far. We should all be on alert. This other England wasn't exactly hostile today, but he could have been. And to a kid, no less.'

Sealand shudders slightly, and England realises that he isn't the only one who isn't comfortable talking about certain matters at the present time. He immediately feels awful.

'Are y… you okay?' he asks, practically in unison with America.

Sealand finally lifts his head up and looks at England with slightly bloodshot eyes.

'Worried about me, jerk?' Although he sounds utterly miserable, there's that familiar hint of playfulness in his voice, along with the return of that old insult.

From the disturbed glances being shot between the various different nations at each other over the last few minutes and the air of finality about this conversation, England can tell this meeting is drawing to a close. The other countries will need some space to process everything himself, and he himself can feel that he needs more rest. He doesn't fear sleep all too much at the moment- in fact, he feels as if he deserves a good rest. The sinking feeling of dread inside him has finally disappeared, leaving only a giddy sense of relief in its wake. He supposes sharing everything did bring him some form of satisfaction after all.

Sealand looks back and forth between America and England, before mumbling, 'Your counterparts are terrible.'

'Yes,' England says solemnly, momentarily blinded by flashes of leering blue and red eyes. 'Y-yes, they truly are.'

'But what is it they wanted with you in the first place? Why do they still want you now?' France asks. Everyone simply stares at England, both with a mixture of curiosity and some kind of marvel; as if there's something strangely reverent about him being chosen of all nations, as well as horrifying and dismaying. Because there must be something truly important about the whole thing, about England, for them to pull such drastic measures to do all of this to him.

'I wish I knew,' he whispers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> I think I should actually do something with my Hetalia blog. I've finally got a new, working laptop that I've yet to screw up so I can use my drawing tablet and actually draw fanart or something. I'm literally so invested in creating this story that I want to draw some art for it; the furthest I've gone is a moodboard that I haven't even posted yet lol. If any of you want to create stuff, feel free. I actively encourage it. Someone made some amazing fanart ages back and I was honestly so touched.
> 
> I figured after all the weird shit the G8 have seen over the last week, they will be fairly accepting of England's story- but they obviously find it shocking, and need a bit of time to fully process it. If I'm honest, I just wanted to give England at least one little break. He doesn't deserve having people telling him he's lying, or that he's delusional about the whole thing. I'm not entirely sure the rest of the world, when they find out (and they will. Oh, that's coming alright) are going to be as accepting about the whole thing. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
> 
> I have a nice collection of reviews that are several paragraphs long and full of swearing and capital letters and enthusiasm, and honestly those are my faves. I got one just over a week ago where someone was so happy this story wasn't incomplete, was only updated 2 months ago, the author (that's me btw, hi) was still working on it and that there was still hope for it. Honestly, same buddy, same. This story is like my lifeblood by this point. I've been writing this story over a prolonged period of incredibly bad health, and it's kind of one of my main goals that I accomplish every two months, give or take. You know: remember to go outside once in a while. Try doing adult stuff. Update Ash Song. That sort of thing. I'm a maladaptive daydreamer, and you would not believe how much time I spend dwelling on what I'm going to do with it. If I stop writing it, assume I've died.
> 
> Wtf am I gonna do with it when it's finished, honestly? I have ideas for more stories. More ideas than you can shake a stick at. Oh geez.
> 
> Anyway, if I do include the two flashback scenes in the next chapter, you guys will be seeing a lot of America and Sealand. I also want to write a present day scene with the 2Ps, because I gotta shove 'em into the spotlight at some point. I'm really excited about writing why they are the way they are, and what they're currently thinking. England and Sealand need a talk too. And Scotland owes America an apology.
> 
> So, a long af chapter as the main course and two very long optional A/Ns for dessert... that's a lot of hard work. I should sleep. Or make a film, write a novel and draw a bunch of fanart. Imma go with that.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!
> 
> Toodles!


	22. Distant Youth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hell yeah, back on a monthly schedule!
> 
> ... For like one update, probably. I'll be back at college in like 29 hours exactly. Knowing me, you're probably not gonna see me for like another 3 months.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is entirely flashbacks. Not chronologically (one's in late 2013, the other is in very early 2011, 1P and 2P verse respectively). I realise that cuz this story is so long and because my updates can be quite far apart, some of you may need a lil memory jog. The first flashback is set directly after the 1P verse flashbacks in chapters 10 and 11, in case you have no idea wtf's going on. Basically where Sealand first shows up to America and reveals he knows shit. I've had parts of this sorta collecting dust for a while, so I'm glad I finally got to use it in a chapter.
> 
> Warnings: it's sad. I made it sad for some reason. I'm sorry. All aboard the angst train to Doomandgloomville. There's gonna be a change in tone in the next chapter, tho. I'm planning some big stuff. England's been through enough shit. At some point, there's gonna be some fighting back.
> 
> Allons-y!

_'Magic,' America says. It's not really a question, but not quite a statement either. It's something in between, and rather hollow._

_Walking beside him, the young micronation nods, his eyes fixed on the pavement in front of him. The two of them have left the meeting room and are now strolling through the streets of Paris. The October air isn't quite chilly, but it's near enough. America's not entirely sure if it's the air itself that's making him feel cold or the cold, sinking feeling in his stomach, washing a chill over the rest of his body. It's been less than an hour since Scotland announced to the world that England is one hundred percent dead. America hasn't quite cooled off from the argument that followed, but the young micronation beside him is certainly offering a distraction._

_'I get it, okay,' Sealand says grouchily. 'I know it sounds stupid. You probably don't believe in it, do you?'_

_'I, er- no,' America says awkwardly, then lets out a laugh. 'I mean, England was obsessed with it. He used to tell me all about it when I was a kid. I believed back then. Then, kids will believe any...' he trails off, remembering that Sealand_ himself  _is a child._

_But the micronation has picked up on what he was going to say. 'Oh, sure,' the kid says with a glare that honestly looks more like a pout on such a young face. A face that bears one hell of a resemblance to England's, America is once again reminded. Sealand bears England's likeness more than other British Isles. Aside from his eye colour and slightly different hair shade, Sealand really does look like a young England. Maybe this is what England actually looked like as a kid._

_'What happened to taking me seriously?' Sealand accuses. 'You said you were gonna do that.'_

_America swallows nervously. 'I'm sorry. I really appreciate this, honestly. And I know you and your family are really into magic. I know it's an asshole thing to do when someone's all dismissive of the stuff you believe in and they laugh at you and everything. I mean, me? I like aliens. I always wanted to believe that there was something else out there.'_

_'Aliens are cool,' Sealand admits in a mumble._

_'Yeah, they are,' America agrees. 'And I've got one for a friend.'_

_Sealand's eyes widen. 'Seriously?'_

_'Yep. His name is Tony. I helped him out after Roswell and he's kinda been my buddy since. He likes video games.'_

_Sealand looks delighted for a couple of seconds, then his face falls. 'Are you making fun of me?'_

_'What? No. Why would you think that?'_

_''Cause you don't believe in magic, but you know I do,' Sealand mutters. 'And you want to see how gullible I really am, 'cause like you said, kids will believe anything.'_

_'No, dude, seriously. I wouldn't do that,' America says hastily. 'Tony is real. You can come over some time and meet him if you want. He sticks around my place in Mexico most of the time. You like aliens too, huh?'_

_Sealand's distrust seems to be dissipating rapidly, being replaced by excitement. 'Yeah, like... Daleks and stuff.'_

_'Fan of_ Doctor Who _, huh?' America smirks._

_Sealand looks a little embarrassed. 'Yeah. Even if it's one of the jerk's shows.'_

_'Right.' Back to England. This is all a good thing. It has to be. America is hoping Sealand can offer more of an explanation._

_'I didn't believe in magic, either,' Sealand says a little unexpectedly. 'Like you said, my older brothers are all mental about it. Especially the jerk. And I see Norway a lot too; I know he likes it. But I used to think it was just like, tarot cards and tea leaves and stuff, when I was a bit younger. I kinda just assumed that was the kind of thing they meant when they talked about magic.'_

_'And that's not what they mean?'_

_Sealand rolls his eyes. 'How long have you known the jerk? Do you seriously not know what he was actually doing?'_

_'Well, I used to walk in on him pretending to summon things-'_

_'I don't think he was pretending.'_

_'- and he always talked to his imaginary friends. Like, that happened_ a lot. _He never liked doing it in front of the rest of us 'cause he knew we thought it was funny, but sometimes, when he thought no one was listening, I'd hear him talking to them. What's this got to do with where he is now, though?'_

 _'I'm getting to that,' Sealand huffs with a pout. 'What I'm trying to say is, I thought he was crazy too, once I found out he actually thought he could do spells and stuff. It just kind of felt unfair. I get called a little kid a lot, and I'm still not recognised as a country. And yet_ he _was the one pretending he was at Hogwarts or something. I used to think he was way more childish than me.'_

_Sealand sounds quite rational, in America's opinion. But he's using the past tense for a reason. The child, for whatever reason, has changed his mind about magic._

_'When he went missing, everyone thought it would be a good idea if I spent more time with my brothers,' Sealand continues, in a tone that specifically implies that he initially found this unnecessary. 'People thought I was... you know. Sad.'_

_'You weren't?' America asks._

_'What's the point in being sad over something that hasn't really happened? Everyone else can be sad about him dying, but I know he's not dead.'_

_'Weren't you at least sad that he went missing?'_

_Sealand snorts, a little too quickly. 'No. Of course not. We never got along. It's nice not having him around.'_

_America feels a flicker of discomfort and slight irritation, before it dawns on him how unnecessary it is to feel this way. He may be bad at reading the atmosphere and interpreting what most people are thinking, but kids are_ much  _easier. They are younger and haven't generally haven't matured enough to disguise their feelings. And this one right here is an open book._

_Sealand is lying mostly, and trying to mix in with a little bit of truth. The part about he and England never getting along is genuine, which America already knows a little bit about. The rest is total crap. The problem is, Sealand himself probably believes it to be true._

_The kid may have a lot in common with England, appearance-wise, but everything else?_

_America sees something very much like himself in Sealand._

_Because wasn't he saying similar things to anyone who asked? During those first months after England's disappearance, back when it still wasn't an emergency, didn't America laugh and marvel at how nice it was to not hear England's 'nagging' voice? Didn't some of the other nations like Japan look on disapprovingly and tell him that he was being unkind, and that he cared really- he just had trouble expressing it, or even acknowledging it? Hadn't he heard Canada say it to him so many times over the years, behind closed doors, long before England vanished?_

_If America judges Sealand for his attitude, he'll be nothing but a hypocrite._

But I've tried to make things right,  _America thinks, and this itself is a realisation. He hasn't thought of it this way before._ Once I did start taking things seriously, I was the only one out of all those other countries who wouldn't give up on England. He's out there somewhere.

_Perhaps this makes up for his previous approach to England. Perhaps it doesn't. Maybe it matters, and maybe it doesn't at all._

_And perhaps Sealand is doing very much the same thing, without even realising it._

_'You say you don't like Iggy,' America says with a little smile. 'But you're doing this for him, aren't you?'_

_Sealand makes a face that's something in between a pout and an indignant scowl. 'How am I supposed to just stay quiet about something like this? That would make me bad. If I don't say stuff...' He trails off, halting and staring at the paving slabs beneath his feet. His face takes on a reserved, haunted look that seems far too disturbed for such a young face. 'Then I'm sort of letting it carry on happening, aren't I? I'm letting him stay lost. Besides, I don't have to like him to do this for him. I wouldn't want what's happened to him to happen to_ anyone _.'_

_'What's happening to him?' America asks instantly._

_'Just... bad stuff. I don't really know. I haven't heard it in a while, but I used to hear it all the time.'_

_'Hear what?'_

_'England. Screaming.'_

_America's heart thuds to a stop. 'S... Screaming?'_

_Sealand nods, still not looking up. 'And calling for help.'_

_'You... you were close enough to hear him? Where? Where were you when you heard him?'_

_Sealand shakes his head, and when he looks up at America, the older nation can see the fear and sadness in the micronation's eyes, even if Sealand doesn't know they're there himself. 'It's not like that,' he says quietly. All traces of his bubbly childishness have evaporated. 'I don't hear him out loud. It's... it's in my head.'_

_'Your... head?'_

_Sealand waves his arms in frustration. 'Jeez, it sounds so stupid, doesn't it?'_

_America hates to admit that it does sound completely ridiculous, so he keeps it to himself. He doesn't want to hurt the kid's feelings, and he promised he'd hear Sealand out. Plus, any information about England, no matter how impossible it sounds, is welcome. It's refreshing to finally hear someone else who doesn't believe England is dead._

_'Are you sure that... you don't believe in magic... at all?' Sealand asks hesitantly._

_America shifts uncomfortably. 'Like I said. I did when I was a kid. I'll admit, there's stuff that happens in the world that doesn't make sense. Weird things that can't really be explained. Hell, I've watched enough creepy videos online to know that much. Maybe stuff like that happens 'cause of magic, or ghosts, or... I don't know. I'll even admit that there's stuff about England that was... I don't know. Weird. Stuff that didn't make sense.'_

_By that, he means a number of things, mostly memories from his childhood, all in the distant past now: of how at night, England could make little glowing flames of all different colours float around like fireflies for America to try and catch; how England somehow really could kiss any cuts and bruises better, to the point that there weren't any marks at all afterwards; how the two and Canada would leave out little food offerings for magical creatures to come and take during the night._

_Later on, when he had grown up, America had come up with his own answers for these things. Those little flames must have really been fireflies, and America had only daydreamed them as fire, or even as different colours. Even in his youth, he'd been ridiculously strong, so perhaps it was his own strength that had healed all those tiny wounds. And one night, while Canada had slept peacefully in his own bed, America had climbed onto the window ledge and stayed up all night, peering out into the back garden for signs of these magical creatures England always told so many stories about. Nothing had shown up- at least, nothing that he could see. In the morning, the food was all gone. Probably woodland animals, and it had simply been too dark too see them._

_America was distraught, so disappointed that he was unable to see anything. England had tried to comfort him, explaining that most people couldn't and that it was nothing to be upset about. He had said that the fact that America helped leave food for them in the first place was good enough to guarantee that these creatures would like him, even if he could see them._

_For well over a hundred years, during the rockiest patch of their shared history, America had never really had the time to resent England's 'lies'. Back then, there were plenty of other things to focus on, like the conflict between their people and the new beginnings of his own independent nation. But they had both come out of that period, and America simply chose to dwell on what he eventually classed as his childhood daydreams. So what if England continued pretending magic was real and tried to convince him of such, even when their people had found peace with each other and alliances had been struck? America filed this under another classic example of England being a little loopy, or perhaps simply him being determined to treat America like a child, gullible and naïve._

_'Let me prove it,' Sealand says, snapping America out of his memories rather abruptly. 'Let me figure out a way.'_

_The child seems so eager to please show his worth, and any and all information pertaining to England is good. If anything, America just wants to hurry this up. 'Sure, dude. That would be great. We need to figure out a way to help England as soon as possible.'_

_'I don't know how to do that,' Sealand says quietly. 'I can't hear him anymore. I don't know if it's because he's stopped screaming, or if it's just 'cause the connection's broken, or it's 'cause he...'_

Because he may have truly died.

_America sincerely hopes it's the first one. The thought of England still in a large amount of pain, almost three years on from his disappearance, is morbid. A tiny part of him wishes that the kid is wrong, that he never could hear England. Because perhaps the thought of England genuinely being dead is more preferable than this. For the first time in all these months, America can start to see it the way the other nations must, especially England's older brothers. The investigation isn't over, not completely. It just so happens that now the case is centred on what caused England's death, as opposed to finding him and bringing him home alive._

_Maybe the idea of England being dead, laying at rest, gives the others peace of mind. Scotland's traumatised words, only hours before at the meeting, about how afraid he was that something truly terrible must have happened to England, echo in America's head. Scotland and the others have what they consider definite proof that England is dead, and the thought of how it may have happened, that he suffered immensely before he died, must truly scare them. Perhaps him being dead, and unable to feel anything anymore, is a relief to them. The alternative, that England might still be out there somewhere, still screaming, sends chills through America's body._

_All of a sudden, he doesn't feel quite so angry at Scotland and the others anymore. If anything, their perspective is starting to make a disturbing amount of sense…_

_No. He understands it, but he won't buy into it. He won't give up on England. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever. He's finally being offered a lead, and he's going to take it._

_All he needs is evidence. He wishes he could simply accept it all now, but the last thing he wants is to get his hopes up over something that might not be real. He wants to believe the kid, desperately. Sealand seems genuine. But this doesn't necessarily make it true. These dreams the kid is having may just be dreams, and the things he claims he can see may simply be a product of overactive imagination, without him even realising- after all, America knows a thing or two about that._

_'Even if I can't hear him anymore,' Sealand says, looking up at America with big, nervous eyes. 'I don't think he's dead. I still see stuff. In dreams. It's hard to explain. But I'll find proof. Are you… are you still going to take me seriously? Are you still going to listen?'_

_Proof. That's all he'll need. Proof, and then he'll let himself hope. America smiles. 'Yeah. One hundred percent.'_

* * *

_A memorial for England is scheduled three weeks later, on the fifth of November, 2013- marking exactly three years since England 'died'. Although he remains stubbornly disbelieving, even despite the revelation he had whilst talking to Sealand, America decides to attend. After all, almost every nation on the planet is going to._

_He arrives five days early in the UK for several reasons: he's taking his annual holiday, for a start, and he has always enjoyed spending time in London, even if he never admitted anything of the sort to England; he also wants to make a good impression on the British Isles siblings, as his recent realisation as to how they must see the situation has improved his temperament greatly; and lastly, he is very eager to be here in the very city England disappeared in. If he's going to find clues anywhere, it should be right here._

_America likes to think he's grown at least a little more mature lately. It certainly feels that way. This brings a smile to his face, as he thinks about how England would react to this behaviour. He'd be pleasantly surprised, and then he'd grow flustered and try to pretend he wasn't impressed, something America would see right through. Yeah. That sounds about right._

_Walking up to England's house is strange. The last time he came here, it had been the morning after England disappeared and he'd shown up excitedly, ready to talk about the snow. He's been to the UK since then, but not to this house. This is where he first found out England was missing… right here on this doorstep…_

_America chuckles at Scotland's expression when he opens the door and his mouth falls open. The younger nation may have matured a little, but his sense of humour is still intact. 'Yep. It's me. Surprise.'_

_'A- America?'_

_'The one and only,' America says with a little two-fingered salute._

_Scotland's surprise quickly morphs into suspicion. 'What are yeh doing here?'_

_'The memorial,' America says simply._

_'But- it's not for another five days. And since when were yeh planning on showing up for that?'_

_'Listen, man,' America begins, taking a deep breath. 'We can agree to disagree on… well, you know. Now, I'm not gonna change my views, but that doesn't mean I'm gonna get angry anymore with everyone else. And it feels wrong to not come. Like, I don't know, an insult or something. If… if I never do see him again, I'd probably regret not showing up. And I can do without regrets, you know? They're totally for old people.'_

_Scotland merely stares at him. He no longer seems hostile, which is something. 'Since when are yeh so diplomatic? And aside from that last part, since when are yeh so bloody… grown up?'_

_America shrugs. 'Thought I might give it a try. What d'you think England would make of it?'_

_He's treading on thin ice now, and he knows it. But Scotland's reaction will be important. America genuinely wants to try and find some middle ground between them. He doesn't have to particularly like Scotland, or vice versa. They just need to get along well enough to be civil, for their own benefit and for the benefit of their people. They don't need to cause tension between their two nations._

_Scotland is silent for a second, then he says, 'I think he'd be surprised. In a good way. And he'd tried to cover it up. He'd also be mildly worried- as in he'd probably accuse yeh of being an imposter and demand to know what yeh did with the real America.'_

_America laughs. 'Yeah. He would. So, uh. Yep. Just thought I'd clear some stuff up with you. No hard feelings and all that jazz. And, um, sorry about the outburst at the meeting. Anyway. I gotta go book in at the hotel. And get changed for tonight.'_

_Scotland seems to be in a state of bewilderment as a result of America's words, but he manages to reply. 'Tonight?'_

_America grins. 'It's Halloween, dude. I'm hitting the streets for all the free candy.'_

_Scotland rolls his eyes so hard that it would put even England to shame. Must be a family thing. 'Of course. And there was me, thinking yeh were mature.' He sounds a lot more light-hearted than he did at the beginning of the conversation._

_America is still quietly laughing as he heads down the garden path to the gate, and he almost doesn't hear the small banging noise behind him. He turns around but the front door has already closed, and the sound is coming from somewhere above. He glances up at an upstairs window and spots a child's face grinning back at him. Sealand knocks on the glass one more time and waves._

_Thirty seconds later, the kid joins him outside. 'Hey! I didn't know you were coming.'_

_'Neither did Scotland,' America replies. 'It was kinda spontaneous, I guess. And you're staying with your bros again, I see.'_

_Sealand pouts. 'Yeah. For the memorial. Which is stupid, 'cause I know he's not dead. And they would too, if they listened to me.' He hesitates for a second, and then continues, 'Speaking of… that. I have the proof. If you want it.'_

_The background sounds of the city around them, both traffic and peoples' conversations alike, dull in America's ears. 'Y… yeah?' he asks a little nervously. His throat has gone dry._

_Sealand nods. 'I wasn't sure what to do at first, but then the fae helped out. They told me stuff I can say.'_

_Disappointment washes over him before he can stop it. 'Fae? As in like… fairies and stuff? Like the things England always… talked to?'_

_'Mm hmm. They're all connected. To the world. I think. I don't really get it. I think they all like… share a mind or something. Anyway, they know stuff. They can see things that are happening a long way away because they share it with each other, or something. And they know stuff from long ago, 'cause it's… passed down.'_

_Honestly, the kid looks just as confused as America feels._

_'The fae are weird, okay?' Sealand grumbles. 'But… they like you. I think they're meant to like nations, because we represent the land that they're a part of. Or… you lot do, anyway. I don't exactly have… land. Not natural land, anyway. You know what I mean. There are fae everywhere on earth, like in the sea, but it's not quite the same.'_

_The child seems to be rambling now, and his voice sounds uncertain. America hates to be sceptical, but it really is hard to understand. When he thought he'd be receiving proof, he assumed it would be a little more… physical. Like… like that movie England showed him once,_ Photographing Fairies.  _He's not sure whether or not he should have expected actual photographic evidence of magical beings, but hey, it's better than nothing, right? Instead, the only proof he's being offered are words._

Don't be an asshole,  _America chides himself immediately._ This is your chance to stop being dismissive about stuff like this. To listen to the kid and not ignore him. Or worse, mock him, like you always did with England. This time, you do it right.

_But he's been so desperate for this. How the hell is he supposed to find England if he's not even sure he understands what is really going on, and if he still has trouble believing it, no matter how hard he would like to. You can't generally just make someone believe in something when every part of their brain deems it illogical._

Be nice. Be polite. But be honest. This kid trusts you. And even if it does all turn out to be wrong, at least you tried to do something for England. Something he probably would appreciate. He always did want you to believe in magic.

' _Listen, dude,' America says, almost mournfully. 'I promised to hear you out, and I will. You have my word on that, okay? But… but is there anything else? Anything really… legit, that you can offer me?'_

_Sealand looks down at his feet. 'Words aren't enough, are they? 'Cause any random person can tell anyone anything. Doesn't make them right. Doesn't mean they're telling the truth.'_

' _Do you have like… any solid proof that England is still out there? That… that we can ever find him?'_

_Sealand's bottom lip trembles. '… No. All I've got are those dreams. And dreams can just be… well, dreams.'_

_America takes a deep, shaky breath. His chest feels light and ever so empty. '… Okay. Listen, man, I'm really sorry. But thanks anyway. I've had a lot of stuff to figure out over the last few weeks. I kinda get it now. Why the others gave up. Doesn't mean I'm going to. I think I'm always gonna just… expect England to come back one day. But if there's no way at all of really knowing if he is out there, or how we'd bring him back… I don't know what I'm supposed to… do.' He only realises there's a tear on his face when one rolls past his mouth. 'I don't know what I can d-do anymore. He may as well b-be dead, for all the good any of us can do for him.'_

_Sealand sniffles. America feels awful for letting him down, but… the kid himself seems to be unable to tell if those dreams are real or not._

_The tear rolls off America's face and falls to the ground. He straightens up. 'I'm gonna go now, okay? But… I know you don't wanna believe he's dead. Neither do I. Maybe he really will come back one day. We… we gotta hope that-'_

' _But what if he can't? What if he needs help?' Sealand is so agitated that he seems to have forgotten to pretend he doesn't care about England._

_America's stomach twists horribly. 'Then I'm gonna do everything I can to help him. But we don't have any way of knowing whether he does or not.'_

_'But I do!' Sealand protests. 'Or I did- back when I could still hear him. He wanted so many people- he called for you, and France and Japan and Scotland and-'_

_Half of America screams at himself to just buy into it, just take everything he can get, even if it is just a fantasy. The other half knows, deep down, that he's no closer to finding England. And he probably never will be._

_He turns around to open the gate. He's still glad he came. It was good, straightening out things with Scotland. He knows quite a few people who would be proud of him for showing such maturity. England would be too, if he were here. And, strangely, he's glad he had this chat with Sealand. As much as he hates the outcome of his own logical thought process, maybe this is exactly what he needs. He'll never deal with anything properly, the way he's been handling it all so far._

_There was never a goodbye between him and England. There was never acceptance, and so there certainly wasn't any closure. And to date, there still isn't an answer. What he said to Sealand is true; maybe he never will let go of the belief that England is still out there somewhere. But he needs to change the way he deals with it. Enough anger. Enough lashing out. No more clinging onto impossible hopes._

_'I never even told you,' Sealand tries one more time. 'The stuff the fae told me I should say. Please. Please just listen. Don't be like everyone else. I just… I just need someone to listen. I know you want to. I know you want_ something.'

_He doesn't sound like a child anymore. He sounds like he would do if he were human, having lived out his real life span, over half a century, and aged as a human would._

_America fears more disappointment, more loose ends, more lost causes. But he halts anyway._

_'I know about the toy soldiers,' Sealand blurts out. 'The ones in your storage closet.'_

_America freezes, then turns around very slowly. Sealand's lip is no longer quivering. He looks up at America rather defiantly._

_'England gave them to you when you were a kid,' he continues. 'He made them himself, and painted them each one differently so they'd all look special. He even messed up his arm doing it.'_

_'England told you about that…?' It's not entirely a question, more of an assumption. The only way Sealand could possibly know is if England, at some point before he disappeared, told Sealand about it._

_Sealand rolls his eyes. 'Why would he do that? We never got along. We only ever argued.'_

_'Then how could you know? And how do you know they're in the…' America trails off. Sealand may be lying, for whatever reason, about how he found out about the toys, but there's no way he learnt about them being in the storage closet from England, because England himself never knew._

_The only other person who knows about the toys being where they are today is Lithuania, and America highly doubts he's been sharing this information with people. America made him promise not to tell, after all._

_'How do I know they're in your storage closet?' Sealand says cockily, his mouth twitching ever so slightly into a smirk. 'How do I know you used to lie in the field by your old house with England and Canada at night so you guys could stargaze? How do I know about that weird game you used to play with Canada, where you'd see who could go the longest being found by England? I bet you really annoyed him doing stuff like that. Maybe that's why he was always such a jerk.' He giggles. 'How do I know this stuff? Because the fae told me. The ones in your country were really helpful. I didn't have to go there or anything. They shared things. Secrets they know. They, um… they watch over you.' He gives a small laugh and all his seriousness from before seems to evaporate. 'That sounds super creepy, doesn't it?'_

_America stares at him, and Sealand carries on. 'They told me I should mention that sort of stuff. Because other countries like England know bits and pieces, but you're the only one who knows all of it- at least, you think you are. But the fae have always been there, and they see everything.'_

_America can barely process this new information, so he starts with the only words he can actually get out. 'So, uh, these… fae. They're always watching me or something?'_

_'They watch everyone,' Sealand continues. 'Everything that's a part of this world. And the ones that live at your place were, like I said, helpful.'_

_America thinks back to what England told him as a child. That the magical creatures appreciated leaving offerings, even if they could never really interact. He clears his throat. 'So, uh… they're um…'_

_'Real,' Sealand says. 'Yeah. I can get them to tell me more secrets, if you want more proof.'_

_America shakes his head. 'No, uh, that's… that's fine.'_

_Sealand can't possibly have gotten all that information from anyone. He can't have been spying on America for centuries; he hasn't even been around that long. As far as America knows, Sealand and Canada don't actually know each other, so he can't have gotten it all from him. And England never would have been the type to share those sorts of things with anyone other than those involved. And he'd have to be quite drunk, even for that._

_The thought of that, the thought of all of this, makes America smile. Suddenly, entertaining the notion of magic being real doesn't seem quite so unreasonable. Either Sealand has some kind of psychic superpower, or some other creepy, secret, impossible way of knowing all this- or he's telling the truth._

_Those little balls of dancing flames from America's childhood don't look like fireflies in his mind's eye anymore. They look how he always remembered them, before the denial shut them out._

_America runs a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky laugh. 'Dude, this is… awesome. Frickin'… impossible. But it's not.'_

_'Improbable,' Sealand corrects, looking quite proud of himself for supplying the right word._

_'Yeah, that. Holy crap. Wow. This is- wait. Hold on. That's all like… personal stuff. You know like some… really private things about me.' Now he feels a little mortified. Not overly, but what else might Sealand know? Not that he has any deep, dark, particularly classified secrets in his personal life, but the thought of someone knowing_ everything  _about him is creepy._

_'Just the stuff the fae told me,' Sealand says quickly. 'Just little things, like that.'_

_They probably are just little things, but they don't feel little to America._

_'Are you… angry?'_

_'What? No. Just… weirded out, is all. I mean… this is_ big.  _This is- England.' It suddenly dawns on him. His shock has distracted him from what this all really could mean._

_'You really can hear him. Or, you could. But, you still think he's…'_

_Sealand grins up at him. 'Yep. Even if I can't hear him, I still get this weird feeling from time to time. In dreams. I see flashes of stuff. Not like, stuff I can make out. Usually. But yeah. I think he's_ somewhere.'

_America opens his mouth to eagerly ask more when the front door opens and Wales pokes his head round. 'Sealand, what are you doing out here- oh. You haven't left yet, America? Scotland mentioned you'd come round.'_

_'The little dude and I were just having a chat,' America explains._

_Strangely, Wales's face grows apprehensive. 'Right. Er… I wasn't aware you knew each other.'_

What's his problem?  _America wonders curiously. 'We don't actually know each other that well. But, ya know. He seems cool.'_

_The child pouts up at him and America winks back. Wales nods slowly, still wearing a peculiar expression._

' _Can I go with him?' Sealand blurts out. 'And hang out for a bit?'_

_Wales seems rather taken aback. 'Um… well, it's almost evening,' he says anxiously. 'It's already getting dark. And…'_

' _Don't worry,' America says, waving him off. 'I'm good with kids. Probably.'_

_'I'm not a baby,' Sealand bites back, pink in the cheeks._

_There's still something concerning on Wales's mind, America can tell. He and Wales still don't know each other all too well, as nowadays international interactions on behalf of the UK are handled by Scotland, whom America is far more familiar with. Naturally, Wales isn't entirely sure if he can entrust America with watching over Sealand._

_He clearly concludes that it can't be too risky, because he says, 'Not too long, alright? And both of you keep your phones on.'_

' _Yeah, yeah,' Sealand groans, sounding bored. 'Thanks, Wales.' He turns and swings the gate open, America following close behind._

' _What was that about?' America asks as the two head off down the street._

' _Wales worries a lot,' Sealand says._

_'Yeah, but I mean… he seemed concerned about something, even before you asked if you could come with me.'_

_Sealand sighs. 'Yeah. Isn't it obvious? You don't believe England is dead. I don't believe England is dead. He and Scotland are probably scared if we start hanging out we're gonna like… form some team or whatever. Like it's a conspiracy theory or some silly legend or whatever. You know, like those stupid videos on YouTube where they post really cheesy fake footage of ghost sightings for people who actually fall for stuff like that.'_

_'Yeah,' America says, laughing nervously. He decides not to mention that he's a big fan of videos like that, and is quite glad that this is a part of his personal life these fae Sealand keeps talking about haven't snitched on him about. 'So, uh? What do you wanna do, man? I mean, as much as I wanna find England, you said it yourself: there's not a lot we can figure out right now, and basically nothing we can do until we know more.'_

_Sealand shrugs. 'My main goal for now was telling you, and getting you to believe me. I mean… you're like, super important. You're really powerful and stuff. Plus, you weren't like the others. You hadn't actually given up on England. I figured if I had you on my side, I could get all those other jerks to listen as well.'_

_America nods. 'Sounds like a pretty solid plan. And yeah, I'm totally onboard now. It's just… wow.' He takes a deep breath. 'I don't even know how long it will take for it to properly settle in. This is huge. Listen… I'm sorry about before.'_

_America is keenly aware of how little he apologises to people, and deep down, he knows it's wrong. He knows how brash and insensitive he can be. Once again, he thinks about how much he's changed since England disappeared. He started admitting he cared. He stopped being so childish and handled his disagreement with Scotland maturely. He's taking Sealand's words seriously, like he never chose to do with England._

_Sealand looks happy, so America supposes he has definitely done some good today._

_'So, are you guys not going out tonight?' he asks._

_Sealand's smile is replaced with a wistful look. 'No,' he says gloomily, casting a saddened glance at a pumpkin on a nearby doorstep. 'Scotland and Wales have been super busy with the funeral arrangements and a bunch of paperwork to do with all the other countries coming. It's been really boring these last few days. Kind of wish I hadn't come to stay.'_

_'But… dude. It's Halloween. Don't you wanna go trick or treating?' America feels mortified at the mere thought of missing out._

_'I can't,' Sealand mutters. 'I even said I could probably go by myself, but Wales said no. Like I said, he worries a lot.'_

_America thinks about the tradition he and England held for several years, where they'd put aside their differences and engage in a competition to see who could scare the other more. England usually won. America has a certain fondness for Halloween, and he knows England did as well._

_'So come with me,' he says suddenly. 'If you're supposed to have an adult with you, you could totally tag along.'_

_Sealand stares at him. 'You're going trick or treating?'_

_'Yeah, dude. Got my costume and everything. I love Halloween.'_

_Sealand is confused. 'But you're a grown up.'_

_'And?'_

_'I thought grown ups don't like Halloween.'_

_'You're never too old for Halloween, man. Look at England.'_

_Now, Sealand seems even more surprised. 'He liked it too?'_

_'Hell yeah. We used to prank each other each year. Come on, you can't say no to all that free candy. Plus, seeing all the costumes is so awesome-'_

_'I don't have a costume,' Sealand murmurs, dismayed._

_'So let's go get one before the stores close,' America says brightly._

_Excitement is beginning to brim in Sealand's eyes. It reminds America a little of the thrilled look in England's eyes each year on Halloween when they held their little game. Before he can get out another word, his throat constricts slightly. He swallows quickly and grins._

_'What are we waiting for?' he says. 'So much candy awaits us.'_

_Sealand gives a giggle of delight and skips off ahead of him. America stares ahead for a few seconds, all those past Halloweens flashing briefly through his mind, before he shakes his head and follows his companion._

* * *

_It is never truly silent. Even when he hears no noise at all, somehow it all feels so loud, crashing down on his head and digging through his skin,_

_In the first week after the wolves killed a part of him, he stays in his new room. Aside from the door opening to bring food and take empty plates away, he is undisturbed. He daren't starve himself again, not like he did during that month in the cell when he was continuously offered cupcakes. He's not sure why he accepts the food now; after all, each new meal could just as easily be tainted like the cupcakes were. Perhaps he is simply afraid of feeling that awful ache of starvation in his stomach again. Perhaps the thought of that is more daunting than the possibility of the poison burning his insides again._

_But the food is fine. It's generally simple, but it tastes good. None of it seems to have any menacing substance within._

_The door does not stay locked. He hears it being unlocked after the second day, and wonders why. He supposes he already knows the answer. He won't run. The mere thought of even trying terrifies and exhausts him. They would simply catch him, or else they wouldn't have risked unlocking it in the first place. He hears their voices sometimes, somewhere downstairs. He can't make out what they're saying, and he doesn't really want to know. If he hears whatever they're planning next, he'll only agonise over trying to prevent it, and he knows any attempts to do so will be hopeless._

_If he were to run, he'd have nowhere to go. He knows that. He doesn't know how to get home. He doesn't know if he even could. Perhaps this will be his new reality from now on. Maybe that's why no one can hear his voice when he calls- he's not meant to find a way home._

_He still calls out in his head every night, but he doesn't sound desperate and he no longer screams. The words are practiced and robotic, and they don't sound like him. It's fitting, however, because nothing about him feels like_ him  _anymore. He awakens each morning, surprised to find that this is his body. It feels both heavy and weightless at the same time, like he's sinking down to the bottom of the river, or simply floating in the depth's darkness, adrift and lost in a void of nothingness. He supposes he probably couldn't run if he tried. The weight pressing down on him would topple him over and push him to the ground, and the light feeling in his head would spin his whole world out of control and before he could take a step, he'd likely slip back into a dizzying dream._

_This is his life now. And he knows he can't fight it, not how he would try to before all this happened to him. He's not sure if he'll ever be able to fight back again, not when everything is hazy and meaningless and most days he can barely even open his eyes, let alone move his body._

_In the second week, he dreams of his other form again. He is not running for his life anymore, but is racing through a forest like he did in his youth, so many centuries ago. There is no broken city, and no wolves. He can hear no howling or snarling. In the dream, there is only silence, and it is peaceful. He feels strength in his muscles and speed in his steps. When he wakes, he is already climbing out of bed and heading for the door before he can even register what he is doing._

_There is no one waiting in the hallway outside his door, and opposite his room is a bathroom. He runs a deep bath and climbs in, letting the water submerge him completely, save for his face. In another life, before all this, he would have likely berated himself on hygiene, and how he should have done this sooner. He closes his eyes and presses himself further down, allowing the water to wash over his face as well. In that moment of darkness and silence, he imagines himself in the river. He imagines opening his eyes to see the bright lights of the fireworks and maybe even the stars. He imagines swimming up and reaching the surface, hearing the sounds of his people cheering and laughing as they gaze up at the sky._

_He imagines finding his brothers and telling them what has happened. In the world inside his head, there is no scorn, no mockery, no cruelty. He imagines their hands pulling him in close, and their touches do not hurt. He imagines the other nations coming to him, speaking words of comfort. There is no trick. They are not here to cause pain. They care._

_He imagines America teasing him, because he wouldn't be America without his jokes. And that's all they are- jokes. They don't sting, and he knows they don't mean anything. He imagines America holding his arms out, and in his mind, where he can clearly see those two blue eyes, he knows these arms are truly safe._

_When he lifts his head and opens his eyes, he sees only the tiles of the small, white room._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> God I love your reviews, guys. You people are so amazing. You will never know how grateful I am. Idk if I can ever say that enough.
> 
> I hope America wasn't too much of a dick. Like he thinks, it is very difficult to believe in something when your entire brain is telling you it's impossible. I feel I owe you guys some serious USUK too, because look how far we've gotten. Like I said before tho, England is still in a very bad place mentally. He and America are doing better in the present day events. At least, a lot better than they've been over several previous chapters.
> 
> Hey so remember how in the last chapter I was all like, 'I have a new laptop and I'm totally gonna draw some Hetalia fanart!' Guess what? I drew art. For a completely different fandom. On a completely different blog. Nailed it. I'm hella anxious about posting art on my Hetalia blog tbh. Outright scared, actually. I literally only ever reblog on there.
> 
> Anyway, change of tone in the next chapter, hopefully. I haven't written it yet, but I know what I want to write. I want England to get some justice just as much as you guys do and we've gotta get there somehow.
> 
> I didn't ramble as much in my A/Ns this time (still quite a bit, but nowhere near as much as last time lmao), which proves that I've officially reached a point of exhaustion where I'm too tired to spout crap. It's 3am. I should go to bed.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


	23. Burning Rage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise. I was meant to update this on my birthday, but it is now almost 2am the following day. You know, me giving a bunch of strangers a gift (aka the chapter) instead of, uh, being the one receiving the gift. Because that's how birthdays work. Absolutely. (Jk I totally got good gifts. Plus one of my favourite fics just got updated, so I definitely won't be sleeping tonight.)
> 
> Anyway, imagine if I managed to update this in less than a month for the next chapter. That's the plan. 5th of November, my guys. Probably incredibly optimistic, but it is half-term next week.
> 
> Warnings: some, uh, confusing descriptions of shit. And a lot of anger. I promised a change of tone in this chapter, and thou shalt receive.
> 
> Allons-y!

_It is in their absence that he finds his strength._

_When he reaches the third week, he takes his first steps down the stairs. Other England is already at the bottom, almost as if he knew today would be the day._

_'We've been waiting for you to finally join us,' he says with a smile._

_England says nothing. He couldn't make his words make sense if he tried. He remembers the first couple of days in his new room, where he babbled aloud his pleads for someone to hear him, unable to differentiate between the words in his head and the words on his tongue, and certainly unable for the former to fully translate to the latter. The connection between his head and his mouth is fuzzy and ineffective._

_They've given him food, water, changes of clothes, a comfortable bed, the solitude of his own room, and they unlocked his door for him to venture into the rest of the house. Such 'kindness' can only herald something new to break him down._

_'Ready for the next game?' Other England, hands behind his back, rocking back and forwards on his heels and toes._

_England says nothing. He feels only the familiar twinge in his stomach, small but there._

_Other England pulls an arm from behind his back and reaches out, grasping England's hand. His skin doesn't feel as cold as it did the first time they touched. England wonders if perhaps his own skin has grown colder._

_'Come,' Other England says, grinning. 'This is good timing. We have a visitor.'_

_England suspects another trick. Perhaps Other England has tried covering up Other America's appearance again with a façade of his counterpart, only this time he may have remembered to change the eyes as well, and England will lose that last part of America,_ his  _America, that he can just hold onto._

_He is wrong. As Other England pulls him through a door on his right and into a kitchen, England's gaze falls on a figure sat at the table. It is not Other America, and no one has tried changing this man's appearance into an exact replica of anyone England knows, though he already appears similar enough to someone familiar. He is dressed in a creased purple shirt and his dirty blonde hair is almost as unkempt as England's. There is a stubble on his chin, directly beneath a cigarette in his mouth. His eyes slowly roll in England's direction, half-lidded and bored, and he gives a sigh._

_'About time your little mouse came to say 'ello,' the rough looking doppelg_ _ä_ _nger of France says. ''Ow long 'as 'e been up there, anyway?'_

_'Almost three weeks,' comes Other America's voice from a spot by the sink. He is pouring himself a glass of water, his back to the others in the room. The twinge in England's stomach twists a little stronger and more painfully, and he becomes conscious of his heart beating a bit faster. Suddenly, he wants to run out of the kitchen as fast as he can and race back up the stairs to his bedroom. But his door only locks from the outside. It is not a sanctuary. It is a cell. He can't stay safe in there._

_Other France's eyes are drilling into England, scanning him up and down. 'You're not feeding 'im very well,' he remarks, sounding incredibly indifferent. ''E's skin and bones.'_

_'He wouldn't touch my food at first,' Other England says, a little sulkily. 'I made him special cupcakes every day and everything.'_

_Other France's eyes are now boring into him. 'And did you put any, ah… special ingredients into these cupcakes of yours?'_

_Other England grins. 'Just a smidge.'_

_Other America snickers._

_Other France seems unamused. 'And 'ow exactly do you expect 'im to do well in any of your little games if he's being either starved or poisoned?'_

_'We've been giving him normal food for weeks now, haven't we, Al?'_

_'How should I know? That's your responsibility.' Other America turns around and sneers at Other England. 'I only cover the fun stuff.'_

_Other France leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing. 'Ah, oui. The 'fun' stuff, you call it? Like the stunt with the wolves?'_

_Other America rolls his eyes. 'Ollie and I did that one together, man. Don't just blame me. Plus, it was fun. That was one hell of a game.'_

_'It was reckless,' Other France says, 'and you know it.'_

_'We had it under control,' Other America replies, returning Other France's glare with defiance._

_'From what I 'eard,' Other France says quietly, 'you almost got 'im killed. 'E was seconds away from death. This particular game of yours was childish and stupid. You cannot be doing anything like that again. 'E will not be dying because of your foolishness.'_

_'But he didn't die, did he?' Other America says coldly. 'Because we had it_ under control.'

_Other England finally pipes up. 'He's right. We knew what we were doing. Our part in it worked perfectly.'_

_'There was only one let-down,' Other America agrees, and that's when he finally looks at England. He doesn't smirk or show any signs of malice. He simply stares, looking rather dissatisfied. England suddenly gets the feeling that Other France isn't the only one whom Other America is angry at._

_There's a new feeling inside him now. Still a twisting in his stomach, but something that makes him feel quite sick too, and hotter than before._

_'And you,' Other France says, turning on Other England. 'This was 'ardly the first time you risked 'is life. Starving 'im for a month? Giving 'im nothing but poison when you did feel like feeding 'im? And no water whatsoever? What were you thinking?'_

_'He survived the month,' Other England says, still smiling away like nothing is amiss. 'And we ended it when he was ready.'_

_'Ready? You mean dying. You ended 'is trial in that cell when 'e was on the brink of death.'_

_'We knew_ exactly  _what we were doing,' Other America growls. 'There was a point to it, you asshole.'_

_'Tell me,' Other France says, 'how much blood did 'e lose when you 'ad 'im strapped to that table?'_

_'Not enough to kill him._ Because I knew what I was doing,' _Other America practically spits. He seems very intent on making his point._

_'So you say,' Other France mutters._

_Other England giggles softly. 'You'll want to be careful there. You might make him think that you're asking all this out of concern.'_

_'I am concerned,' Other France says. 'Concerned that the two of you are risking everything.'_

_Other America manages a cruel smile. 'Nah, he means he's worried that you're gonna make our guest here think you care. Mind you… turns out he can see through that sorta thing. Our tricks didn't work on him, not for long. It was a shame, really. Ollie worked hard on that spell.'_

_Other England nods fervently. 'It was a toughie, I'll say.'_

_'If it didn't work out 'owever it is you wanted it to, then it was pointless, wasn't it? You almost got 'im killed for nothing.'_

_'Oh, I definitely think it achieved something,' Other America smirks. 'He may have seen through it, but I bet it still screwed him up.'_

_'And does 'e actually talk?' Other France says sceptically, pushing his chair back and standing up. He walks round the table until he is face to face with England._

_'Say hello,' Other England chirps, nudging England. The touch sends jets of both cold chills across his skin and a burning wave of heat inside his twisting stomach. England doesn't quite understand the second feeling. He keeps his mouth firmly shut. The thought of talking, of letting his disjointed words flow out in a nonsensical mess, is unfavourable._

_'Doesn't seem to 'ave any manners, does 'e?' Other France remarks._

_Somewhere at the back of England's mind is a bright hot flash of victory. Since the incident with the wolves and the brand new perspective he was offered when he was in his other form, he's come to see that not all of his mind's workings must focus on words and conventional thought process. He may not be the prey anymore, but most of what he feels, or what he lacks in feeling these days, is simply registering as instinctive senses._

_The old him would be offended at being accused of being impolite. The new him finds vindictive pleasure in pissing them off. Even if he is punished for it, at least he is feeling something. Something_ good.

_Other America peers at him, his expression unreadable. He doesn't quite seem as irritated with him anymore. 'You like that, don't you? Something funny?'_

_England stays silent. Staring back at Other America is hard, so he opts to look at Other France instead. Of all the people in this room, England is least afraid of him. After all, he hasn't demonstrated what he is capable of yet. England isn't foolish enough to mistake Other France's concern for his wellbeing as kindness, like the other two seem to think he will; a part of him knows that Other France simply wants to ensure his survival for some master plan he and the others have concocted. England is apparently no good to them dead._

_He privately makes note of this._

_''E does talk, right?'_

_Other England bites his lip and frowns in a saddened manner, like he finds this upsetting. 'He did. I'm not sure why he won't now.'_

_Other France's heavy lidded eyes fall on Other America. 'It seems,' he murmurs, 'that your little toy isn't as broken as you seem to think 'e is.'_

_'What are you talking about?' Other America demands. 'He can't even talk anymore. If that's not broken then I don't know what is-'_

_''E's not staying quiet because 'e can't talk. 'E's staying quiet because 'e_ won't  _talk,' Other France explains dryly._

_The other two stare at England. 'Is that so?' Other America says softly. 'Why won't you talk to us?'_

_England's mind is washed in a dimming black and flashes of dizzying white and red; a fearful array of bones crunching and blood spraying, and something else, something harder and hotter than the fear. Something very familiar._

_He forces himself to look directly into Other America's eyes. The crimson burns, icy cold, into his skin._

_'He's scared shitless,' Other America decides, looking irritated once more. But it's not just anger- he's disappointed too. England can see that now. 'I guess we should have seen it coming. Our bad, right?' He glares at Other France, as if daring him to agree. 'I just thought he'd do better, ya know? I didn't think the wolves would get him, and we'd have to pull him out. And that he'd hide away and shit-'_

_'Al, we've talked about this-'_

_'Mention the swear jar one more time, Ollie, I dare you,' Other America snaps. 'He was supposed to be better than this. We all thought he would be, don't deny it.' He looks back at England. 'You may not be talking now, but you can still hear. You getting any of this? You sure you haven't got anything to say?'_

_The red in his eyes matches the red inside England's head, perfectly, and he suddenly remembers what it means._

_'Like what?' Other France puts in. 'An apology, for not living up to your unrealistic expectations? 'E almost died. 'E's not going to apologise, no matter 'ow much you think 'is mind 'as cracked. Of course 'e's afraid. What were you expecting? 'E is not 'ere to be your special little project, for you and you alone. This is for all of us, and you will not ruin it.'_

_England looks away from Other America and past his own counterpart, to over by the kitchen sink. There's a window above the counter, big enough for someone to climb through if they pushed it open far enough. The blurring, dizzy flashes of panicked colours yearn for escape alone, but this feeling isn't as strong as it usually is. The burning dark red, solid as concrete in his mind, calls for what is beneath the window: a cylinder of utensils. While the others talk amongst themselves, his eyes fix on its sharp contents immediately, forgetting the window._

_When he finally looks away, he finds Other America watching him carefully with narrowed eyes. The other nation glances questioningly at the window, then seems to realise that England was fixated with the cylinder. He stares at it for a few seconds before looking back again. His mouth twitches slightly at the edges._

_'I was wrong,' he says quietly, and the other two shut up in an instant. He takes a step forward, and England flinches but holds his ground. Other America seems to notice both these things, and something about the two combined satisfies him._

_'You're afraid,' he says, 'but you've got something else as well. Something even stronger than fear.'_

* * *

Five days into his period of recovery in the psych ward, or his imprisonment (as England has secretly begun dubbing it), he is called to see his appointed doctor. He imagines she is thoroughly exasperated with England's entire case, given all the complications have were presented to the ward upon his arrival. His brothers sure do know how to kick up a fuss and use their authority to bend the rules. England has tried to reason with them; he accepts that someone should always be keeping an eye on him in case he has another breakdown, but he's getting pretty sick of them arguing with the hospital staff.

'Good morning, Arthur,' the doctor says as he takes a seat in front of her desk. 'How are you today?'

'Fine, I suppose,' England replies. It's not a lie. He dreamt of his missing memories last night, as he seems to do every night now, but they didn't leave him panicking or hurt when he woke up. They haven't done for several days now. He knows he should be relieved, but much like his paranoid past self in the memories, he is convinced this must mean that something big is coming. Something that will likely be incredibly traumatic, no doubt.

He just hopes he'll be out of the hospital by the time it comes, or else the breakdown that will follow will likely force him to stay much longer than originally planned.

'As I understand it, you have a sibling in another part of the hospital,' the doctor continues. 'One of your other brothers mentioned it. He also suggested that he believes this may have been what caused your lapse in health.'

England nods. He, Ireland and Wales have agreed on how best to explain the breakdown that landed him in the psych ward.

'It w-was upsetting,' he begins. 'He fell from q… quite high up. I panicked badly afterwards, and w-when I visited him the n… next day, it all got… worse inside my head. So I was admitted here.'

The doctor bows her head, sympathetic. 'It must have been frightening. I obviously don't have access to any details in your brother's ward, but I've heard from the rest of your family that he is making quite the recovery. They're arranging for him to be transferred to a hospital in London upon their return to the UK. They've also been adamant on bringing you with. From what I've observed, you seem healthy enough to at least travel back to your own country, although I would strongly advise that you pursue further treatment once home.'

England wonders what she would say if she knew about the scars littering his skin. This is one thing his brothers have fought desperately to keep secret from the staff. They've ensured that he always bathes and changes clothes in complete privacy. The last thing they need is the police getting involved.

'I'm impressed with how you've done since you came here,' the doctor says kindly. (England imagines she's less impressed with his brothers and their attitude.) 'Your speech is certainly improving.'

This is something England is glad of. His inability to enunciate his words properly has aggravated him, especially since he was forced to admit to himself that the cold weather wasn't the cause.

'Your family has been incredibly… supportive, too,' she carries on, politely struggling to find the right word.

'You can say smothering. Th-they can't hear y… you,' England says, then immediately feels a little bad. His family have been fighting against hospital policies to keep him as safe and as comfortable as possible. Even he must admit that they must care a great deal, paranoid insecurities aside.

'Involved,' the doctor decides, smiling. 'They've certainly been involved.'

'I apologise f-for all the trouble we've c… caused you.'

'Not at all. None of this is your fault. And while I must say your brothers have made things slightly difficult for us, there's no denying that they want what's best for you.' She turns to her computer and begins typing up a form. 'They plan on taking you out of the ward two days from now, so you can all prepare to head back home shortly. Are you comfortable with these arrangements? If you feel that you wish to remain here longer-'

'No, that's fine. Th-thank you.'

She leans back on her chair and gives a slightly baffled smile. 'Honestly, it's hard to believe you and your brothers all chose to work in the same field.'

'I suppose you c-could call it a family business,' England jests lightly.

* * *

Ireland and Wales are both waiting for him in his room when he returns from his meeting with the doctor. Surprisingly, Germany is here too. This clearly must be quite official business. The tall nation is as composed as always, but there is a minor amount of discomfort lingering on his face.

'How did it go?' Ireland asks as England takes a seat on the bed.

'Well… she's fine w-with letting me out. So I can c… come back home and everything.' Admittedly, although he's glad to be finally leaving the hospital, England is not looking forward to the flight. He was paranoid enough on the plane coming here with Scotland, almost two weeks ago. Since then, his health has deteriorated considerably, and he doesn't like the thought of being trapped in a relatively small space for several hours, thousands of feet in the air. Upon this thought, his mind immediately jumps to an undesirable outcome: that the nations in the other world might somehow make an appearance, that there may be another attack. How the hell could he handle something like that on a  _plane?_

'That's good,' Wales is saying. 'It works with our plans-  _potential_  plans,' he quickly adds. 'Which all depends on what you have to say.'

Ah. That would explain why Germany is here.

'I suppose th… there's some sort of arrangement you'd l-like to make,' England says.

Germany nods. 'This is difficult. We ask for your consent, and if you do not give it, we will respect that and have to come to some sort of other arrangement.'

'For w-what, exactly?'

'A world meeting,' Ireland says. 'A big one. Not just eight nations, or even twenty. We want to get everyone involved, everyone who can make it.'

'Of course, it would be optimistic- no, impossible, to assume that every country on the planet will be able to attend, what with the current relations between certain nations,' Germany continues. 'But as many as possible.'

'And… why exactly d-do you need my permission?' England asks. He knows exactly which angle they're coming from, but he also knows his word in this particular matter shouldn't have to count as much as it currently does.

'Because it's about yeh, numpty,' Ireland says, rolling his eyes. 'A coupla weeks ago, the main plan was introducing yeh back to the world slowly- yeh know, start out small with the G8, then maybe some kinda European conference, and so on until everyone was up to date. But, um…'

'We're in somewhat of an e… emergency,' England finishes.

Germany bows his head. 'Ja, that's one way of putting it. From what you've told us of this other world, alongside the contact others have had with it over the last two weeks, particularly the entity's attack and harm inflicted on Scotland, we must assume that our world is in a fair amount of danger.'

'For all we know, other nations might be being targeted right now,' Wales says. 'And everyone has the right to know of what we might all be up against.'

'I doubt they're going r-random nations in our w… world. N-not right now, anyway,' England murmurs.

'Why not?'

He sighs. 'They'll want my attention. Th-they're targeting people near to m… me. They s-started tormenting the G8 b… because I'm here with you. Which is why…' He draws a deep breath. 'I'm not sure it's a g-good idea, bringing them all together. B… bringing them near me.'

'England.' Ireland grits his teeth. 'We've talked about this. Yeh're not responsible for this and yeh bloody well know it-'

'Whether I'm r-responsible for it or not,' England replies hotly, 'there's no denying I'm right. B… But on the other hand… if they  _do_ decide to start targeting random nations, r-regardless of whether they're around me or not, it's b-best if everyone was brought together. And that way, w-we can at least warn them all personally.'

'Exactly,' Germany says. The reason for his obvious discomfort finally comes to light with these next words. 'I'm sure you know, England, that realistically… people aren't going to believe your story. Especially if we do it all by phone or other means that don't involve us all meeting in person. You are aware of this?'

'Naturally,' England says dryly. He's a little  _too_  aware. After all, he had a hard enough time believing that the nations here in the States with him would buy any of it.

'The fact that yeh're alive isn't gonna prove where yeh were or what happened to yeh,' Ireland says. 'They're gonna need more than that. Hopefully, seeing as it's not just yer word, but ours as well, they might believe the story if yeh've got several nations backing yeh up. Especially with the majority of them being the G8 themselves.'

'What exactly is it y-you want?' England asks. 'My permission to call for a w… world meeting? It's an emergency. Even if I th-think gathering everyone together could end badly, it's b-better than individuals being targeted w-with no one around to help. We'd have… I d-don't know, safety in numbers. The whole thing shouldn't d-depend on my word.'

'Well, the thing is, we want to hold it in London. So we're gonna need yer permission,' Ireland says. 'We're also trying to arrange for it to happen as quickly as possible. The world nations are gonna get pissy about being given such short notice, but that will hardly matter in the long run. This ain't something we should delay.'

'We just wanted to run this by you. I take it we have your support?' Germany says.

'Of course,' England replies. He wonders why they don't just decide to have the meeting here in the States- at least that way, the nations here won't have to leave, but will instead have time to prepare for the arrival of all the other countries. But of course, London is the beginning of this whole mystery, isn't it? It's where he went missing, and where they'll at least have a chance of finding more answers. If only the city signified the end to all of this, too. But none of this ended when England returned to this world, not like he would have hoped.  _It's just the beginning of a whole new game,_ Other America and Other England would likely tell him.

He'll have to win this one.

* * *

On his final night in the hospital, Wales is the one watching over him. The two haven't exactly found each other easy to talk to lately, and generally resort to uncomfortable silences. England spends all his time doing the only enjoyable thing he can really do in these circumstances- reading. Unfortunately, he doesn't find himself fully immersed in the books he is given, not like he always used to be. His mind wonders constantly, fixating on words he feels he should say, and some words he even wants to say. Perhaps with all these nations here in the States believing his story, he should be opening up a little more. He truly does feel like at least a small weight has been lifted from his shoulders, although he has yet to provide any details to everything he has already told them.

_How would I even begin to explain the wolves? How would how it all felt make any sense to them? They'll be mortified when they hear what happened at the end. They'll understand that part well enough. But…_

They'll never see it, never feel it like he did. And that's a good thing, because England wouldn't wish that upon anyone. Except perhaps those who did it to  _him._

Ignoring a strange hot churning in his stomach, he decides to ask a question that's been pestering him for several days now. He's asked it before, but never really received much more than a vague, unsatisfying answer.

'How is Sealand?'

Wales jumps badly and drops the newspaper he was reading, completely unexpecting to hear England speak. The silence has lasted for hours, after all, and England hardly says anything these days, even when he is expected to talk.

The older nation smiles slightly, amused by England's persistence with this question. 'Like I keep telling you, brawd, he's fine. Nothing else has happened to him.'

'He saw m… my counterpart,' England points out, 'and it clearly sh-shook him up.'

'He's spending most of his time with America,' Wales says. 'Even when Ireland and I don't need someone to watch over him. He's not happy with us right now.' He sighs. 'That's fair. I know that. He'd rather be elsewhere, and he's very fond of America.'

'So I've heard.' England's stomach is twisting once more. He wonders if it will ever  _stop_ doing that. Feeling a little cold (a stark contrast to the strange burning that seems to be raring up inside of him lately, both in his dreams and real life), he traces his fingers over the goosebumps on his arm.

'It's nice,' Wales says with a little smirk. 'That you're worried. That you're  _showing_ it. You and Sea are finally getting closer. I think he likes it. He'll never admit it, but I'm sure he does.'

The chill on England's skin feels even colder. He shivers and tries to ignore it. 'Yeah.'

Wales peers at him closely, seemingly noticing his strange discomfort. Of all of England's brothers, Wales always was the easiest to interact with, and certainly the one who understood him best- or at least bothered to. He'll know exactly what England is thinking right now, and what is really bothering him- something England is hardly going to voice aloud.

'You alright?' Wales asks softly.

'I'm not p-panicking or anything. It's not that,' England says quietly. He feels slightly sick.

'I know. You and Sea are going to talk soon, aren't you?'

England nods. 'I suppose so. Yes.'

'And to the rest of us, as well,' Wales says. 'About the things you haven't mentioned yet. I'm sure there's parts you've left out, because you weren't ready to tell us.'

England's mouth is very dry. 'What if I'm still not r… ready?'

Wales smiles at him. 'Then we'll wait.'

He, of all people, deserves to hear a bit more of the truth (despite that nasty voice in England's head telling him that Wales deserves nothing of the sort, that he helped Scotland tell everyone that England was dead, that he never listened to Sealand). No matter what mistakes Wales has made, he has been incredibly supportive.

'I remember th-the other France,' England mumbles.

Wales stares at him. 'For how long?'

'A couple of nights ago. There w-wasn't really anything l… last night. But it's come back to me.'

'So just him, the other America, and the other you so far?'

'Yes.'

'And what was he like? Did he do anything to you?'

'Nothing that I r-remember yet,' England mutters. 'He was… tamer th-than the other two. But I d… don't buy it. I'm sure I d-didn't fall for it back then. And I'm n-not doing it now.'

The heat is back, washing over his chilled skin from underneath it, coursing through his veins. He understands it now- and he knows Other America could see it in him, and know what it was too. Underneath his bed covers, he clenches his fist.

Outside, the sky is pitch black, although Wales has yet to draw the curtains. England stares out at the city lights and narrows his eyes until it all becomes a blur. From this, he can almost pretend the shining dots of light are stars, stars he knows are up in the sky somewhere, hidden by all the light pollution. But at least he knows why he can't see them. At least he knows they're there.

The yellow dots of light give way to two new glowing flecks, these ones red, accompanied by a dark silhouette behind them. England's eyes open wide and he takes in the sight of something all too familiar: that demon he had once been so afraid of, the one he had been convinced only he could see, due to the fact that no one else ever reacted to its presence, other than France.

Of course, now he knows that he was simply looking at America the whole time, hallucinating his counterpart in his place- only by that point, he hadn't regained his memories of Other America and his appearance. His mind had compensated by replacing the image of the figure with that of a dark, blank silhouette, with only the eyes remaining.

A swirling mess of colours flash in his mind; a blurring, frightened flash of white pain and that burning red, small at first, before spreading through his head like wildfire. His body is a twisting mixture of cold fear and that  _burning_  feeling that seems to blend with the red, like nothing else matters.

In an instant, he throws himself out of bed and lunges for the lamp on his beside table, yanking it so viciously that the lead comes straight out of the plug socket with one pull. Wales yelps in surprise and is quickly on his feet too, but England pays him no heed.

With three brisk steps, England is in front of the window in an instant, glaring out at the city, his heart thumping rapidly in his eardrums. He can vaguely make out the sound of the of his own heavy breathing and the twitching cold fear streaming through his body. It is still here after all, although the red almost drowns it out completely. For once, the fear doesn't seem all that powerful or suffocating anymore.

'England, what is it?' Wales demands nervously, quickly making his way to his brother's side.

'You didn't see it?' England asks, his voice rather flat. The words come out like steel, fixed and solid, no quiver whatsoever. He has no room for satisfaction, however. He grips the lamp tightly in his hand, holding it out threateningly like he would do with an actual weapon. It's dangerous enough, but the base is blunt. All the better if the bulb shatters; that will certainly do some damage…

'… what? See  _what?_  England! Answer me!'

England peers closely at the window, the hand holding the lamp shaking slightly. The fear may be slightly subdued, but it is not absent. He knows this. But he knows something else- he has  _control_ of it.

When he stares directly into the glass, only his reflection and his brother's look back at him. Wales's face is constricted with anxiety. '… Nothing,' England says finally, talking a step back from the window, his grip on the lamp loosening slightly. When he looks at his reflection, the face he can see himself wearing resembles the expression Other America had first worn when he had recounted England's failure in escaping the wolf pack.  _Disappointment._

He shouldn't be disappointed that the visitor in the reflection has vanished so quickly. He should be relieved… or rather, more relieved than just this small bit of comfort. Like the fear, his relief is practically drowned out by something much stronger; that same aggressive, flaming red, blaring in his mind.

'I wasn't nothing!' Wales protests at once. 'I must have missed whatever it was- you clearly saw something!'

'Nothing now,' England corrects himself. 'He's g… gone.' He dully notices the loss of his structured words once more, and more disappointment sweeps in, just as the red-hot feeling starts to fade. Suddenly, England doesn't want it to go. He could speak properly when it reigned over his mind, and he was brave enough to try and defend himself, to walk  _towards_ the danger, instead of running in fear like he tends to do these days.

Wales shivers. ''He'?'

'The other America.'

'The… the one who pushed Scotland…' This isn't a question. Wales looks thoroughly mortified, and very, very pale. He sinks onto England's bed, staring at the ground in shock for a few seconds, before glancing up at England in panic. 'We need to get out of here. I'll think of something to tell the staff, so we can-'

'He's gone,' England repeats, gesturing at the window.

'He might come back,' Wales hisses, his voice high pitched.

'No. He w… won't. Not tonight.' England walks over to the bedside table and places the lamp back on it, before reaching down to plug it back in. It's a wonder he didn't break it, honestly.

'You can't know that for sure,' Wales says in a shaking voice.

'But I do,' England replies, strangely calm. He can't explain how he knows this with such certainty. He can't even properly explain how the colours attribute to the emotions he feels, but maybe that's the point. There weren't words for these things when he was the prey, only blind instinct. But he doesn't feel like prey now. He feels something quite the opposite.

'You can go, if you w-want,' England says, trying to be gentle. He can see how frightened his brother is, and realises rather uncomfortably that this is how he must generally look to everyone else these days. 'If it will m… make you feel better. Though I doubt you'll be willing t-to leave me here.'

'Of course not!' Wales exclaims. 'England, you've got to come with me-'

'I have to stay-'

'England, he could still be watching-'

'Perhaps. That's why I m-must stay.' He gives a humourless chuckle. 'I can't let him see m… me leave, like some kind of b-bloody coward. Enough of all that.'

'England, being afraid doesn't make you cowardly,' Wales says firmly.

'It's not like l-leaving would matter,' England says with a bitter laugh. 'As if finding me is a p-problem for them. Th-this is hardly the first reflection they've used. T… trust me, Wales. He's  _gone._ He's made his p-point. And I've made mine.'

'What does that  _mean?'_ Wales practically chokes.

England thinks back to those narrowed red eyes, and to the face he had briefly made out in the glass. He'd seen that all-too familiar malice, and as he thinks back to it, he realises how a minor amount of disappointment in the other isn't the only thing they've shared. Because he had spotted something more familiar than any other feeling he could ever hope to identify.

Fear.

There had been fear in those red eyes. Only very briefly, when he came up to the glass with his weapon at the ready, gone almost immediately. But it had been there.

England doesn't know what to make of it, and all of a sudden he feels incredibly tired. The adrenaline from Other America's brief visit has vanished, and now it's left exhaustion in its wake.

'It's late, Wales,' England says wearily. 'I kn-know you're scared. Believe me, I understand that b… better than anyone. But he won't bother us again tonight. N-not now.'

'How do you know?' Wales asks hoarsely.

England gives a small, weak smile as he climbs into bed once more. 'Because,' he says, 'we're n-not the only ones who get scared.'

* * *

_England tries to think the way he used to, the way people do. He tests out putting words to the senses inside his head, but it's as if he's forgotten every label, like he's erased all memory of what things are called. The dizzying blur of his vision, along with the wash of cold across his body, mean fear. He knows that much, at least. Fear is his only real constant these days, the only label his mind seems to think is worth remembering._

_It's practically blinding, now. It feels as if it's tearing his lungs apart._

_'Go on,' Other England encourages him, nodding at the front door._

_This is a trick. It must be. The wolves are probably waiting just outside. And it doesn't matter what form he's in- the pack will easily be capable of ripping him apart. Again._

_Whatever this is, it is simply the next game. Nothing more._

_The other two are already outside, waiting. This is the first time he has come outside during the day in several months now. The light hasn't particularly agreed with him recently. He caught bits of it streaming through the barred window, back when he was kept in the cell, and he can very clearly see daylight through the window in his new room, though he opts to always keep the curtains closed. Although all the terrible things seem to happen in the dark, he has grown accustomed to it. In darkness, he can hide. Our here in the open, in broad daylight, he is vulnerable._

_England can't make out any wolves, fortunately. They tend to favour night time, anyway, so perhaps he won't have to worry about them appearing. Without the wolves to focus his attention on, he is able to finally observe his surroundings. He had been dying when Other America had pulled him out of that cell, too weak to notice much of anything, and it had been dark on top of that. When he had been in the body of the rabbit, his only true concern had been escaping from the ever so literal jaws of death. He had taken in things, of course, but his way of thinking, or rather,_ perceiving,  _had been warped by his new form._

_It's much like the kind of sky he's used to, completely white with clouds, obscuring the sun. But these clouds are darker, and the air feels almost heavier because of it. He wonders if perhaps this is why he could never see the stars here; it must be much the same at night time. Despite the darker hue of the clouds, the world around him isn't too dim; it still seems as bright as ever to England, and offers a full view of the street._

_They must be on the outskirts of London, hence why the fire from November hasn't touched these parts. The people don't set fire to absolutely every part of the city, only the vast majority of it. Nevertheless, remnants of the flames have reached out to other ways to these parts. Sections of the ground are blanked by light piles of ash that must have drifted this way through the air, though for the most part the ground is clear. Weeks' worth of wind now and then has likely blown most of it away._

_The other houses seem unoccupied. There are no cars in sight, and when England thinks back to his time racing through the city, he can't seem to recall having caught a glimpse of any cars. The houses, or at least the parts of them that he can see, seem to be structured in an old-fashioned manner, wooden fences instead of iron chains or railings separating the tiny front gardens from the ones next to them. What's more, several of the windows are covered my more than just curtains; dark materials are spread over the glass from the inside, as if to block out all light. Or perhaps… to prevent light from the inside being seen out here._

_Down the street, a couple of the houses are in serious ruin, the top floors having completely crumbled into the floors beneath. The debris is covered in shrubbery in weeds, as if they've been in this state for a long time._

_England feels as if he's stepped back in time. The street eerily reminds him of his capital during the Blitz. If it weren't for the overgrown plants, he may have even believed himself to be back in the past._

_'You gonna quit gawking or what?' Other America demands, snapping England out of his daze. 'As you can see, this place has gone to shit. Nothing interesting about that.'_

_'Now, Al, don't be so obscene,' Other England admonishes him immediately. 'You can hardly speak, silly.'_

_'At least I actually bothered to clean up a bit after the war.'_

_'My efforts are focused elsewhere, as well you know.'_

_'What?' Other France taunts, joining in. His former seriousness has finally given way to a more sneering attitude, now that he's calmed down a bit. 'You mean rebuilding parts of your city every year, just so you can set fire to it again and again? It's pointless.'_

_'You have your customs, and we have ours,' Other England sniffs._

_Other America rolls his eyes. 'Yeah, never mind all that. We didn't come out here to stare at this shithole. You.' His eyes fix on England, and he takes a step forward. 'You know what I find interesting about you?'_

_England says nothing._

_'You are one_ stubborn _asshole,' Other America elaborates with a grin. 'Ollie told me about all those cakes he made for you, and how you just_ refused  _to give in and accept them.'_

_Other England, Ollie, nods, looking affronted at the mere memory of it._

' _And then you finally did eat one,' Other America continues. 'Which was a shame. But I guess it was good thing too, 'cause you were kinda dying and all. Your pride was no good to you if you were dead.'_

_He takes another step forward. 'And then, there was that whole thing with the spell Ol did on me. It took you a little while, but you saw through that in the end. And then it didn't matter what I did to you, 'cause I couldn't change the fact that you'd figured out the truth.'_

_One more step, then another. 'But then, you were, uh, compliant. You accepted the food. I get you were all screwed up after my game and all, but still, not cool, ya know? You're not supposed to play nice. You're supposed to kick and shout, like some whingy little kid. You're meant to fight_ back _.'_

_He's growing closer and closer. The blurring fear sears its way through England's mind upon his approach. 'So then there was the thing with the wolves. I think you've kinda got the gist of how we feel about that. Long story short- that did not go how we wanted it to. You weren't meant to get caught, but you did. So you can understand why I ain't too happy.'_

_He's a mere five feet from England now, his red eyes blaring with dissatisfaction. England finds the colour sweeping through his own head in an instant, a sudden, churning heat washing over the fear and sinking down into it so the two can blend together. He shudders a little as Other America draws close, but holds his ground._

' _You stayed in that room and hid afterwards,' Other America states coldly. 'Sure, I'd probably get it if I'd been in your place. I'd understand if I'd been screwed up like you have. But the fact of the matter is, I_ haven't.  _Because I'm not the one who got captured by a bunch of nations from another world. I'm not the one who got trapped and broken down. Because I don't ever let myself become the prey.'_

_He's right in front of England now. The red in his eyes matches the crimson in England's head, perfectly._

' _To me, it's just sad,' Other America says. 'And by that, I mean pathetic. Not the kinda sad that makes me wanna cry, 'cause I can't feel shit like that anymore. None of us can, not for years, and that's why we don't fall into traps for the weak. 'Cause we're_ not _weak. We made it, and we did it_ well _. Survival of the fittest and all that.'_

_England's fists are clenched, and shaking badly. But they're not cold. They're burning, like they're on fire._

' _But,' Other America says, his chilly seriousness pushed to the side by that cruel smirk, 'the point of this speech was to say what I_ like  _about you. So. Let's see. You are so,_ so _scared right now. I mean seriously, you should see your face. But like I said back in the house: you're not_ just  _scared. You're getting a handle on that fear, 'cause you're feeling something else too, something that_ beats _it. Something that's_ using  _it, and turning it into strength. You feel me?'_

_And then, with no warning, he punches England in the face._

_The smaller nation goes tumbling back, crashing into the ground with a hard slap. It hurts, of course, but it pales in comparison to the poison, to the knives, to the wolves. Above him, Other America pulls out a dagger he recognises immediately: the seemingly favourite one, with the smooth green hilt and the long, sharp blade._

' _Yeah, you know this one, don't you?' Other America sneers. 'This is the special one. Real nice, huh? This one made the prettiest marks on you.'_

_His voice drowns out at the end, and all England can see is that pulsating, fiercely hot red. With a surprising amount of speed, clenched fists still quivering, he pushes himself off the ground and back onto his feet, ignoring the angry stinging on his cheek and the aching of his bruised back._

' _See!' Other America exclaims, and to the side, Other England whoops in delight. 'There it is! You ain't weak. You just had a little fall along the way. And you built yourself back up again. I saw you looking at those knives in the kitchen. See, I thought you were looking at the window at first. But you weren't.' His grin is wider than ever before. 'You weren't searching for an escape. You were searching for something to_ fight  _with. 'Cause even when you're terrified, you can still find your rage. About time you let it out.'_

 _He puts the knife away, clearly uninterested in using it. In another swift motion, he sends another blow to England's face. This time, however, the smaller nation is more prepared, and although he stumbles badly, he still manages to stay on his feet. Other America's words are opening doors inside England's head, letting words flow back in, words he'd replaced with colours and senses._ Strength. Fight. Rage.

' _Think about all the shit we did to you,' Other America taunts him maliciously, licking his lips. 'We dragged you outta your world. We locked you up. We hurt you and beat you and broke you down. Hell, you got_ torn apart _'cause of us. Look at everything we took from you. Your dignity, your strength, your safety. We took away your_ home.  _Surely you gotta want at least a bit of revenge after all that.'_

_England sees the next blow coming, and he swerves to one side, instinctively swinging his own fists out in both protection and retaliation. Other America grunts in pain and steps back, his hands flying up to massage his face._

_His whole speech about being strong, about not letting anything beat him, must be true. He's clearly not used to having anything hit him, or even wound him at all._

_England's heart is hammering powerfully, in a frantic blend of fear of what Other America will do now and unrestrained, thick, red rage._

_Through the pain, Other America winces and manages to grin at England. 'That's more like it. Guess you're not a lost cause after all. If anything's gonna beat your fear, it's your anger.' He hesitates. 'No. It's not just anger. It's_ fury.'

_England lunges at him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> So I like. Actually contributed to the fandom with fanart. And it didn't go terribly. I kinda want to do it again.
> 
> I want to elaborate more on that weird unease England has when he and Wales are discussing Sealand. That will be important later. Probably. I love adapting England and Sealand's relationship, but that obviously means acknowledging how it was before. And there are complications there for England.
> 
> Can you believe it's taken me almost two years two write less than two week's worth of plot? I'll finally have them going back to the UK in the next chapter. And then a world meeting. I'm hella excited for writing how that'll go down.
> 
> Also, I'm trying to finally start seriously elaborate on why the 2Ps are so screwed up in this story. I'm really throwing in references to it now. This chapter's meant to signify a whole new part to the story. Like the fearful stage for England, part one, that bit is over. He'll still be scared, of course. Who wouldn't be? But he's got this newfound strength in his rage, and honestly I've been waiting to finally get round to writing this part for ages.
> 
> Anyway, the most important part: thank you so much for all the feedback and support. I've had one really rough month and my birthday wasn't exactly a shining relief, so writing this has actually been the highlight. As always. Writing this story has always been the highlight for me. I'm fixated on its progress and completion. I may have mentioned this before.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, and remember to review!


	24. Crumbling Cage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY 5TH OF NOVEMBER, Y'ALL! And I actually did get it out on time... for this time zone, anyway lmao.
> 
> Anywho, this would have come out a bit earlier but I actually spent most of the day writing the chapter, because I left it 'til the last minute as always. I tried to include all the pre-world meeting scenes in this chapter cuz I really want to get round to writing that scene, and I guess this means I can actually do it in the next chapter, which I'm super psyched about.
> 
> Am I celebrating the fifth? Does going out into the garden to stare at some distant fireworks and a yellow moon count? I guess I'm just celebrating with this update, and I'm quite content with that.
> 
> Warnings: ... this one ain't so bad, actually. By my standards. Some angsty, self-deprecating thoughts, but then, I am writing England. The guy is canonically self-critical. I take whatever I can get to fuel the angst. Sealand's still pretty traumatised. Other than that, I'd call this content fairly light. There's even fluff at the end. Or like. The closest thing someone like me can get to fluff.
> 
> Allons-y!

_There are three things England knows for certain._

_The first is that they call each other Al, Ollie and Franny. In the world he is from, nations tend to call each other by their true names, unless out in public among unsuspecting humans. Of course, there are plenty of countries from different parts of the world who do not abide to these rules, due to their own personal reasons or cultural differences, but for the most part the nations of England's world refer to each other by their country names. Things seem different here. Not once has he heard these three call each other by their true names. Perhaps that's simply how things work in this world._

_'Al' and 'Franny' could very well be short for Alfred and Francis, which are America and France's human names. Then again, Other England seems to be called 'Ollie', which is probably short for Oliver. England's human name, meanwhile, is Arthur. So perhaps, aside from the differences in appearance and extremely prominent contrasts in personalities when compared to England and the countries in his world, there may be other attributes that these nations have as opposed to their counterparts._

_Maybe it's important, maybe it isn't. But if there's one thing that England can choose to do, it's to learn. To know them, to gradually learn everything about them, step by step. Their strengths, their weaknesses, any opening he might find._

_The second thing he knows is that there was a war. Other America, Al, pointed out on that street that Ollie never properly cleaned up after it. Ollie's defence was that his efforts were focused elsewhere. England almost dares to ask them about it, but he knows immediately that, even with his newfound courage at the result of his rage, he is still too afraid to risk it. Besides, he still won't speak- because he knows his words will come out in a jumbled mess, and because he knows they want him to. This is one bit of defiance that he is willing to risk. They won't sway him from this, not unless they have some new horrific threat in store for him, one that will force him to obey them out of fear._

_England wouldn't put it past them to do something like that. He knows they're always preparing for the next game._

_Judging by the architecture on the street and his own speculation on how long it has been in this decayed state, England theorises on what the war in question might have been. His best guess is that this world had its own Second World War, which, if the given title is accurate, would also suggest they had a First World War too. Perhaps their world's history is aligned with his own world's. Maybe that's one similarity both dimensions have._

_Perhaps the Second World War ended differently here, or maybe the aftermath took a different path. He questions whether their two worlds were ever similar, and if this war they speak of is what set the difference between them. After all, his world certainly isn't in a condition such as this. But he could be wrong in thinking that this is the point in history in which the states of both worlds diverged from each other. After all, Other England said that the burning ritual they hold every fifth of November for London is tradition. And maybe they've been doing that since the Gunpowder Plot itself. Perhaps the two dimensions and the people in them have been infinitely different since the very beginning._

_Except, he knows that this isn't quite true. Not for the nations themselves._

_Because the third thing he knows is that these other nations weren't always like this. They once felt things, once were what they now consider weak. Other America said as much out on the street._

I can't feel shit like that anymore. None of us can, not for years. That's why we don't fall into traps for the weak. 'Cause we're not weak. We made it, and we did it  _well._  Survival of the fittest and all that.

 _England wonders if they know he listens. That he takes in what they say. That he_ learns.  _Is he meant to? Do they want him to? They're hardly keeping it a secret, after all._

_He thinks back to that first night in this world, on the fifth of November, as London burned. He remembers Other England standing there, cold, apathetic, unfeeling. As if the pain of his capital didn't even reach him. As if it wasn't even a part of him._

_England, on the other hand, felt it all. Almost like he had taken his counterpart's place, as if he'd assumed the other nation's role in this world._

_Thinking, theorising, planning. These things, he can do. After all, he's been given plenty of time to dwell inside his own head since he arrived here. Day by day, the words become a little easier to place and understand. The colours of feelings and gut instincts are still prominent, of course, but they're not dominant anymore._

_Neither is his fear. His rage saw to that._

_The scuffle on the street with Other America hadn't lasted very long. He'd had maybe three or four minutes of time to punch, kick and even bite the other nation, regardless of how bruised and battered he got in the process, until a sudden, swift blow to the back of his head had sent him straight into a dreamless pit of black. He suspects it was either Other England or Other France. It doesn't really matter which one it was. He wasn't and still isn't expecting any of them to play fair. Other America's survival of the fittest speech probably applies to all their mindsets. This world isn't intent on playing by the rules. And so, England knows he mustn't either. Not if he wants to make it._

_He had later come to an hour ago in his bedroom with a mild headache. This isn't a problem, not by longshot. England has been prone to headaches and migraines throughout his life, long before all the pain he met in this world. And even getting wounded in that fight hadn't really hurt, not like some of the other injuries he has endured here. He has a very high tolerance for pain, something he suspects they may not have. Other America is strong, maybe as powerful as the America in England's world. Getting into a fight and actually receiving wounds is clearly not something he's overly used to. England suspects that Other America is used to delivering blows, and never really getting them in return._

_Besides, if he and the other nations in this world are in a similar state to Other England, somehow disconnected from the pains of their lands and people, then perhaps pain isn't something they come across very much at all._

_From his spot on his bed where he has sat for the last hour, deep in thought, England opens his eyes and watches the door. The lock is on the outside, of course, but that doesn't mean within those two weeks he spent shut up here that he didn't consider moving some of the furniture in front of the door to bar the entrance._

_The thought of doing so wasn't altogether tempting at the time. He knows that they could have barged their way in eventually. They're the ones in power here, after all. They always find a way._

_Now, the whole idea is unthinkable. To hole up in such a manner, to hide from the danger, feels cowardly to him- and he knows that's how they'll interpret it too. Other America has high expectations of him now, and who knows what he might do if England disappoints him again._

_England narrows his eyes slightly. Defiant to all reason, Other America's dissatisfaction had somehow helped bring out all his rage- as if the other nation's opinion of him actually matters. It shouldn't. It doesn't. England has always been quite self-conscious, prone to snapping and getting defensive when people insult him or voice any amount of displeasure regarding him. No amount of fashioning himself into a respectable gentleman could quite control his easily stoked temper, or erase the nasty little words inside of his head, both his own self degrading thoughts and memories of hurtful words spoken by others. Over sensitive, others would call it. The world has labelled him as tough, but this has always been one thing he has been unable to conquer._

_England has always, unwittingly, taken things quite personally, and often privately hated himself for doing so, but this is perhaps the worst of all. What these other nations think of him shouldn't matter. Their disappointment in him shouldn't have stung the way it did. They are monsters. They are worth nothing to him, and their opinions should be much the same. But nevertheless, England had found himself wanting to prove them wrong, wanting to show them that he wasn't some beaten, broken little toy of theirs. As much as he loathes to admit it, he had found a large amount of satisfaction in Other America's admission at being wrong about him._

_He tells himself he is allowed to be angry when he hears them insult him. If he is weak, it is because they made him this way. If he is strong, it is because he built himself back up again. When they congratulate him, all that should matter is his own assessment. Their approval means nothing. It must be his victory, not theirs._

_They have no right to judge him in any way, shape or form, be it good or bad. No one should have that right, no one but himself. But it's all very well trying to tell himself this. It never stopped him feeling bad about himself in the past, and it's probably wishful thinking to hope it will now. Especially if the consequences of disappointing them are severe. He can care about what they think, if it's in the interest of keeping himself safe from them. Everything else to do with what they think of him is unimportant._

They are monsters, and I do not live to satisfy them,  _England repeats in his head over and over again, until the burning hot rage beneath his skin is all he can feel, and he is certain he can believe it. At least for a little while._

* * *

_He is awoken the next morning by an awful searing pain on his arm._

_He gasps and jerks his head up from his pillow, his other hand flying over to grab at the wound on his arm before he has even registered what might have caused it._

_Beside his bed, sitting on a wooden chair that usually resides in the corner is Other France, watching him with dull, purple eyes. In his hand, held loosely over an arm of the chair, is a cigarette._

_England stares down at his own arm. Sure enough, there is a small, red-hot scolding mark from where the cigarette pressed against his skin._

_Other France shrugs, appearing quite indifferent. 'Just wanted to wake you up,' he drawls._

_England glares at him, his stomach churning in anger. There is barely any room at all for fear to surface here, which is unsurprising. He is least afraid of Other France, naturally. But certainly not stupid enough to assume he is harmless. England expects Other France to show what he is capable of sooner or later. This time, he will be ready._

_As if reading England's thoughts, Other France lets out a raspy, humourless laugh. 'I'm not like them,' he says. 'I don't take pleasure in what they enjoy. I don't 'ate it, either. I just don't care either way. I'll admit, I was a little curious to see your tolerance for pain. It 'urt, didn't it? But not very much. I'm sure you've 'ad a lot worse by now.' He lifts the cigarette to his lips and inhales briefly before blowing a small cloud of smoke above England's head._

_Irritated, England slides off the bed to get away from the smoke and goes to stand a few feet away in the clear zone, his arms folded across his chest. He doesn't expect Other France to even bother turning his head but to his surprise, the other nation's eyes seem to fix on him with something more than just apathy. England feels as if he recognises the expression. It was likely there the day before in the kitchen, only he was more focused on the other two nations and what they might do to him to properly notice it._

_Other France's gaze is drilling into him again, the way it first did when they met. His eyes still look as glassy as ever, but the way he keeps them half open, even when not as bored as usual, seems forced, like the dullness is covering up hidden interest underneath. His gaze sweeps over England from top to bottom, studying him just like before, in a way that feels different from simply being assessed. England wonders for a moment if he's overthinking this. He makes it a point to analyse everything these other nations say and do, so he can understand how they think and they'll never have the chance to fool him again._

_When Other France actually gets up from his seat and approaches him, he almost shivers. The arms he has folded across his chest feel as if they're here to protect him now. He can already feel the fear creeping back into his mind, so he quickly forces himself to look down at the small burn on his arm again and relight his anger._

' _You're very much like your counterpart in some ways,' Other France observes calmly, his voice as nonchalant as ever, although England swears he can see a strange glint in the other's eye. He twirls the cigarette in his hand absent-mindedly, before reaching out with the other hand and resting it just below England's right shoulder, far too close to the throat for comfort. Every instinct in England's body screams at him to either run or punch the other nation in the face. In his inability to decide which would be best, he merely stands, frozen, unsure of what to do. 'I mean, you are the same person, really. Or you were. Started off as the same person, and simply took separate paths.'_

_England can't think of a single thing he and his counterpart have in common, and hates the thought of them ever having any similarities, be it today or a thousand years beforehand. But from the way Other France's eyes seem to roam over him, he suspects it isn't their personalities the French nation is comparing._

_'They can do whatever they like to you, as long as they don't let you die,' Other France breathes, his voice very low. England can feel his breath, hot and smoky on his face._

_He doesn't care. England needs no convincing of that. Even at the way Other France is looking at him with that subtle amount of intrigue, England knows he himself means nothing, really, except whatever it is these countries think he is useful for. Other France is very intent on keeping England alive. They all seem to want that, even if the other two are a bit riskier about it. A_ lot  _riskier._

_'Oliver likes to stoke the fires,' Other France says strangely. ''E likes that they belong to 'im now, and forgets what it is like to burn.'_

_England doesn't understand what the other nation means, but it's not as if he's going to voice his confusion. He remains as silent as ever._

_'Allen,' Other France continues, presumably referring to Other America, 'is much the same. But 'e craves 'elplessness. Not in 'imself, but in whoever 'e chooses to play with. 'E likes to see what 'is toys do with themselves once 'e's torn them down. I'm sure you've noticed.'_

It's a little hard not to notice something like that, _England almost bites back._ And what is it you like? What small piece of meaning can you find?

_'So, what do we call you, then?' Other France says, changing the subject. He doesn't sound particularly concerned with the question. England has already gathered that not much can pique Other France's interest. 'We already 'ave an Oliver. Should we call you that, too?'_

_England simply watches him, learning, analysing, understanding._

_Other France sighs, looking irritated. 'You can at least nod or shake your 'ead. You're stubborn with them, because you 'ate them. But there's no reason why you shouldn't at least comply a little with me. You 'old contempt for me, but only by association. I'm with them, so you think of me as your enemy. You're not entirely wrong. I'm certainly not your friend. Nor do I care what they do with you- so long as you don't die.'_

_And England almost believes it. It's at least partially true, he can tell. Other France isn't exactly bad- not like them, anyway- but he's not good either. He is, for the most part, as neutral as his permanently bored, indifferent mood. He doesn't care at all- about almost anything, from the sounds of it._

_But England can see the way those purple eyes run up and down him, and see the familiar restrained flare hiding behind their dullness, something that perhaps comes to life on occasion when Other France does choose to find interest in anything, or anyone. Something that, even then, hardly means a damn thing to him. England has lived over a thousand years, and seen it- or a more passionate version of it- so many times in the eyes of men and women alike. A very primal urge for humans, something nations too have indulged in on plenty of occasions when they're not warring with each other, when they're securing alliances, when they find themselves lonely at night, hungry for something more with each other. Other France looks him up and down like he's an instrument, a remnant of something more, something to coldly indulge in out of routine alone. Something to inevitably throw aside because none it ever matters._

_But he is right, in the end. There's no reason for England to be as stubborn with him as he is with the other two. England hates the way this nation looks at him, hates the hand on his skin, but he hasn't been mistreated by him. Not yet._

_To answer Other France's earlier question, England slowly shakes his head._

_Other France raises his eyebrows, although his eyes stay half-lidded and unamused. 'Oh? So just England, then? Is that what you do in your world? You call each other by your nation names?'_

_England nods._

_Other France finally shows something a little more than indifference at the subject matter. He nods slightly himself, looking a little thoughtful. 'We used to do that. We can't anymore. Well… we shouldn't. And I suppose you 'ad no reason to change your ways like we did.'_

_He pauses, inhaling his cigarette again. It's almost as if he's waiting for England to ask questions, although he probably doesn't care either way._

_'We use 'uman names now. Oliver. Allen. Francois.' He waves lazily at himself with the cigarette. 'But your 'uman name. Oliver. Don't you ever use-?'_

_England is already shaking his head._

_'You don't commonly use it?' A nod. 'And… perhaps… it's not actually Oliver?' Another nod. 'Strange. I suppose there are quite a lot of differences between you and Oliver as well. You're not going to talk, so there's really no point in asking. It's not incredibly important, anyway- but then, most things in life aren't to me. But a small part of me does wonder what my own counterpart is like. Is the other France like me?'_

No,  _England says immediately, although not out loud. The words flow through his head before he even thinks them through._ No, because I've seen him look at people the way you do, except it all matters to him.  _They_  matter. He takes pride in feeling it, in caring, in any and all of its forms. You don't care. You don't care at all.

_Gone are the days where England would feel embarrassed to have said something nice about France, even in his own head. Hell, the chances are he'll probably never see France or any of the others ever again._

_It's a horrifying thought, but it's one he may have to be prepared for._

_Other France watches him for a few seconds longer, before turning back and walking over to the chair to take a seat once more, staring off into space once more with those dull, lifeless eyes of his._

* * *

He stands by the river's edge, watching the light waves wash over the steps at his feet.

In the reflection on the surface of the water, everything is dark. It's almost as if there's no city at all; all the lights are out and the sky is completely black, devoid of stars. But when he looks up from the water at his surroundings, all is well. The city is bright, and although the urban lights block out any view of the stars, he's sure they are there.

He knows this. He remembers the little flashes of a blacked-out city and a dark sky, along with those agonised cries for help, all inside his head.

Sealand takes a step closer to the water's edge, wondering why he's standing so low down. Usually when he comes to London and sees the Thames, he is always standing higher up on the other side of the railings. But right here, he is on a set of steps, leading down into the river. They're probably placed here to help people who might fall in climb back up onto land. He briefly wonders if England ever tried using them when he fell in all those years ago, although he probably would have had trouble finding them in the dark.

He never found them, or else he would have climbed back up and not ended up in that stupid bad world in the first place.

The other world is right here in the reflection, completely dark. It's as if there's no reflection at all, really. The river is pitch black, like the lights above are invisible. But Sealand knows the reflection is there- there just aren't any lights in that world.

Except…

He remembers the world in his head glowing once, when he caught a glimpse of it on fire.

The water continues lapping against the steps. All around him and above, he can hear the sounds of the city, but the noises are faint and muffled. The closer he stands to the water, to the other dimension, the more distant the world he is a part of feels. The only sound that even feels real is the constant flow of the water, sweeping over the lower steps over and over again. And all he can see when he looks down is the inky blackness of the river.

Until there's something else.

Far beneath the surface, a shape is appearing, growing larger and larger as it rises up. It seems impossibly pale in such lighting, like something is illuminating it. The closer it gets, the more defined its features become, and Sealand sucks in a deep breath when he recognises it.

England looks unconscious from the way his body remains motionless. Or even dead, Sealand realises, and he breath he's holding in comes out in a fractured exhale before he takes several other shaky, deep breaths. He's never actually seen a dead body before (at least, not that he can remember). And the thought of England being dead, all those years ago when it was abstract and barely believable, chilled him even then. Seeing an actual physical body is far worse. Sealand shudders and tells himself that England can't die, because nothing in all those terrible five years was able to kill him, even if almost everyone else thought he was dead.

He's just unconscious, and he has almost reached the surface now.

Sealand bends down onto his knees and leans forward, reaching out with his hand. England may not be dead yet, but he may still drown if he stays in the water. Or catch hypothermia like he did before, according to Scotland, back when the eldest brother found England the morning after he returned to this world. Sealand should at least try to pull him out, because he can imagine the look on England's face when he finds out who rescued him, and how America will congratulate the micronation and call him a true hero.

And most importantly because he doesn't want England to die. He probably shouldn't mention that part to his brother later on, though. It would be very embarrassing. Or maybe he  _should_. England talks like he can't believe people actually care. Wouldn't it be a big, nice surprise if Sealand of all people proved him wrong? The micronation pictures the look on future England's face again, and imagines a surprised but truly happy smile on his brother's face, and suddenly Sealand quite likes the image.

His fingers brush against England's back, the top of which is now above the surface of the water. England is freezing, but then, he  _is_ in a river.

With a few nudges, Sealand tries to push him so his face is out of the water. After a few seconds, England's head does indeed rise up, his face appearing as he rolls onto his back. His eyes are closed underneath the wet fringe plastered to his forehead, and his skin is very pale.

Sealand swallows and tries nudging him again. 'Hey… j- England. Are you- are you gonna wake up?'

 _Please,_ he adds in his head, because he's scared and he doesn't know what he's supposed to do if England doesn't wake up.

Then, without any warning, England gasps and his eyes fly open.

He thrashes around for a second, clearly panicked, choking for air. Sealand jumps in alarm, letting out a little cry, his heart fluttering wildly. After a few seconds trying to calm down, he pokes his head over the edge of the step again and watches as his brother also seems to regain control.

'Hey,' Sealand says. 'Um. You're awake. That's good. Uh… do you need help…?'

He holds out his hand again, tentatively. England just needs to wade over to the side slightly, to reach the lower steps that lead into the river. If he does that, he should be able to climb out. Sealand could guide him to them.

England blinks, lifts up one of his own arms, his hand outstretched.

As soon as the cold, pale fingers clasp around Sealand's arm, far above his hand, the little micronation knows that something is very, very wrong.

England's eyes are glowing a bright, bright blue, like they are lights in the darkness, and his mouth begins curling into a wide, daunting smile.

'Tell England that we're waiting to repay him for all that he gave us,' he rasps, and the words are ever so familiar, just as haunting and chilling as they were when Sealand first heard them.

And suddenly the grip on his arm is tight and heavy and Sealand is being pulled forward, down, down, down into the depths, screaming-

* * *

With an awful jolt, Sealand is shaken awake by his own dream. He glances around wildly, immediately frightened by the muffled, humming noise all around him and the shuddering surface he finds himself sitting on.

'Ah, you're awake. We'll be landing pretty soon,' Wales says from beside him. 'Hey, relax. It's okay. Did the turbulence wake you up?'

Sealand finally places his surroundings, and although a little relief comes to him at the realisation that the river was all just a dream, he doesn't exactly find the real situation he's in comforting. He's never really found planes all too frightening before (not that he's been on many), but the hum of the engine suddenly sounds just a little too ominous, and shuddering cabin from the turbulence reminds him of his own quaking as Other England's fingernails had dug into his skin and the world had spun around him as he'd tumbled into the water-

'Sea? You alright?' Wales asks, looking concerned.

Sealand stares in front of him a few seconds longer, before mumbling, 'Bad dream.'

Wales nods sympathetically, and Sealand is struck with a confusing set of feelings; a part of him wants to tell Wales, wants to be comforted. But a bigger part of him wants to keep Wales out of this, because what right does he have to hear any of this, when he never wanted to listen before?

Ireland said Sealand is allowed to be angry. That he has every right to be. Sealand knows it's true, but a little part of his still wouldn't mind a hug right now. Something warm and gentle, and nothing like the cold, tight grasp of the hand in the dream.

He ignores these thoughts and twists in his seat, hesitantly peering through the gap between the seat and the window at the spot behind him where England is sitting, next to Ireland.

Like in the dream, England is unconscious. His head is pressed up against his own window slightly, a small frown etched on his face.

 _He's dreaming, just like I was,_ Sealand realises. He wonders if Other England is in the dream, like he was in the micronation's.

Looking at England's sleeping face makes chills him slightly. He's awake now, and there's no logical reason why it should happen, but Sealand can't shake the thought of England's eyes suddenly opening and glowing bright blue.

And then, with another jolt of turbulence as a pilot's voice comes on, announcing the impending arrival, England's eyes really do open, and Sealand almost jumps out of his skin.

Luckily, however, England's eyes are just their normal, regular green. They blink sleepily, unfocused, before they fix on Sealand's face.

The child almost pulls back in embarrassment at having been caught staring, but he doesn't move. The two simply watch each other for a second, both in a kind of daze, before England straightens up.

'His name is Oliver,' he says.

* * *

England doesn't quite know what to do with himself when he and his brothers arrive at his old home.

The house itself feels rather cold and empty, mostly due to the approaching winter, and the fact that it has been unoccupied for two weeks. When England had arrived back from the Otherworld, he hadn't spent an awful lot of time here. Firstly, he had remained in the hospital for several days, and once he had been deemed stable, his brothers had taken him around London, to Downing Street, to Buckingham Palace, to anywhere in the city where he needed to make his return known. What little time he had spent at home was at night in his bedroom, subjected to a mostly dreamless sleep each night, before that first memory had returned to him on the evening before he left for the states. A memory of a faceless Other America- Allen- digging into his skin with that pretty green knife.

Does Germany still have it, or did he give it to Ireland and Wales when they all departed from the States?

'I think I should have th-that knife back,' he tells Wales on the second day, after finally giving up on trying to read a newspaper. His restlessness has made it nearly impossible for at least an hour now.

Wales is typing away furiously at his laptop, tasked with the job of arranging a suitable venue for the world nations to meet in at such short notice. England finds it almost amusing that despite having been here in this world once more for several weeks now, he still hasn't been handed back any his old responsibilities. He supposes he's been deemed a bit too mentally fragile for all of that, and too 'preoccupied with everything that's happened to him', as he overheard Ireland putting it the night before.

Wales looks up from the laptop, with a frown that looks more like a wince.

'Does G… Germany still have it?' England asks.

'… No. Ireland does now,' Wales replies, and England can see he's being honest. He appreciates that. 'Getting it through security at the airport was a nightmare; I don't know how you managed.' He gives a weak smile, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

But England is already rising from his chair, wondering where he might find Ireland. Perhaps he's upstairs, talking with a still bed-ridden Scotland. Although the eldest brother is able to move his limbs far more easily now, he's still forbidden from trying to walk. Perhaps most humiliating for him was being carried onto the plane to sit in a private compartment near the back of it.

England finds Ireland in the kitchen, on the phone with someone.

'Yeah, I know this a tad bit unorthodox- well. A bit more than a tad… Yes, I understand yeh have commitments… Yeh sure yeh can't cancel that? It's just, this really is  _very_ important. I'm sure Germany can brief yeh on it… Yes, we really do need everyone. Or as close to everyone as possible… Yeh think we wouldn't have arranged something so hastily if it weren't a global emergency? … What? Terrorism? I'm- I'm not entirely sure that's what I'd call it…' He turns around and spots England, before shooting him a rather hopeless glance. Whoever he's on the phone to is clearly not happy about this new, upcoming world meeting.

'Look, China,' Ireland continues, 'we could really use yer support on this. Yeh're one of the world's leading nations, and this is something that  _needs_ to be heard. A very important issue came to light at the G8- yes, I was there for that, long story- and to ensure that everyone is prepared for a potential risk that could very well threaten us all, we'll need everyone to comply with-'

He breaks off as England snatches the phone from him.

'Listen,' England says, a very strange blend of nerves of bold exhilaration racing through his body. 'You need to come. D… Do you understand?'

On the other end of the line, he hears something that sounds like a cross between a gasp and a choke. 'Wha- what-?'

'The situation is s… serious. Things are changing. Do you understand?' England repeats.

'You- you're… you can't be-' China splutters.

'I can, and I am,' England says flatly. Next to him, Ireland looks thoroughly stunned. He makes no move to take the phone back. England sighs as China continues to try and get his words out.

'Be there,' England finishes, before ending the call.

'Eng- England, yeh probably shouldn't have done that,' Ireland manages to get out as England hands him back his phone.

'Why not?' England shoots back.

'Well, for a start, yeh could have given him a heart attack.'

'Because he's older than the r-rest of us?' England challenges him. He surprises himself with the tease in his voice.

Ireland rolls his eyes. 'Because he thinks yeh're  _dead_ , England.'

'N-not anymore, I should imagine.'

'We want to wait until the meeting before we tell everyone about yeh. He might  _tell_ the other nations.'

'And is that so bad? It m-might actually give them reason to come. If they're i… interested, anyway…' For a second, he is hesitant in his boldness, suddenly flooded with familiar thoughts of none of the other nations caring all too much about his return because they don't care all too much about  _him_. 'Not that you need c… concern yourself with it, anyway. I doubt China w-will say anything to anyone. He'll scarcely believe what heard. He's rational- he'll p-probably convince himself that it wasn't really me.'

Ireland decides to address England's impulsiveness nonetheless. 'What's gotten into yeh? Yeh're acting… different. Bolder. Like yeh're…'

'Not as scared as I was b-before,' England finishes for him.

'Well… yeah. Did something happen?'

 _I found strength,_ England thinks.  _In my memories, my rage conquered my fear. I escaped a cage inside my head._ It was all bound to affect him when he woke up from it, he supposes, and secretly feels a little victorious. At least, at this rate, he won't be as much of a stuttering mess in front of the rest of the world when all the nations arrive.

'D… do you have my knife?' England asks, already knowing the answer.

Ireland thinks carefully before replying. 'I've put it somewhere safe.'

'Where?'

He receives a sigh. 'Yeh don't need it now, and yeh know it.'

Heat begins spreading underneath England's skin. Not comforting warmth, but an irritated burning. 'And if something sp… spontaneously attacks us? I'm not a b-bloody child. You can't just keep it confiscated.'

'I know where to find it, if we need it,' Ireland says firmly, and England clenches his fist.

 _Don't get angry,_ he tells himself.  _Your rage is for the nations in the Otherworld. Save it for them._

Ireland is watching him, frowning. 'Yeh really are different. What happened to yeh?'

'I quite like the change,' England finds himself saying, much to Ireland's confusion. Realising that asking for his knife here and now is a lost cause, England decides he has nothing more to say to his brother. He turns around and leaves the kitchen, quite content with the impression he's made. He really is satisfied with the new version of himself. He feels braver, stronger, ready to face the nations in the Otherworld should they think to bother him again any time soon.

At the end of the corridor he steps out into, he catches a glimpse of a small face with wide eyes peering out at him from around a doorframe, before the child ducks into a room and the door is hastily closed.

England's triumph doesn't quite feel so satisfying anymore. With a small, uncomfortable lump in his throat, he heads in the opposite direction to the closed door.

* * *

America receives two phone calls on the night before he's due to fly to the UK for the big meeting.

He wants to arrive a little earlier than the rest of the world, and he imagines a few other members of the G8 will probably choose to do the same. They are best suited to help the British Isles arrange the event, after all.

He has just pulled a suitcase out from under his bed so he can begin to pack (he imagines England's voice chastising him for leaving it so late, and smiles at the thought, additionally wondering if England would still be like that) when the first call happens.

'Yo! How can I help ya?' America answers, instinctively casual, before hoping desperately that it's not one of his government officials. Although most of them who know him quite well find his light personality quite endearing, there are still many who think him childish and irresponsible. Well, America realises sheepishly, they're not entirely wrong.

 _'Hi,'_  comes Sealand's hesitant voice on the other end of the line.

'Hey, little dude! What's up?'

 _'Nothing much,'_  the child replies, sounding oddly reserved.  _'You're coming tomorrow, right?'_

America grins. 'Can't wait to see me again, huh?'

Finally, Sealand seems to brighten up a little.  _'Dream on!'_ he scoffs jokingly, to which America laughs.  _'I only saw you last a few days ago.'_

'Nothing to be embarrassed about, my dude. I bet Iggy's missing me too, huh? Not that he'd admit it.'

Sealand's voice grows quieter again.  _'Yeah. Probably.'_

America may not be great at reading the atmosphere, but he gets Sealand. He has long since established that the two have a lot in common. Often, understanding Sealand is a lot like understanding himself.

'Did you guys fall out?' he says seriously.

 _'No,'_  Sealand says quickly.  _'Nothing happened. Except… except the mirror in that bathroom.'_

America is confused. He was with England the whole time while Sealand was having that encounter with the other England, so the England in this world had nothing to do with…

Oh.

Suddenly, painfully, America understands it all too well. Not so much from Sealand's perspective, but rather from the receiving end- the end England is no doubt a part of now.

'You're scared of him,' America says.

When Sealand does nothing more than breathe in heavily, America decides to correct himself. 'No. Not him. You're scared of who he reminds you of. Like how England is with me… and the other me.'

 _'Is… is that bad?'_  Sealand whispers.

America feels his stomach clench in sympathy. 'No, man, of course not. I'm not always great at understanding people, but I get why England panics around me sometimes. Even before he explained it, before I knew  _why_ … I knew he couldn't help it. I knew he didn't mean to. I was upset, sure, but not with him. I was upset with what had been done to him, to make him like that. I'm sure he'll understand that, with you.'

 _'But… I just feel stupid. It's different with me. I didn't get hurt or taken away for five years. I didn't have anything bad done to me. I just stood in front of a mirror for two minutes and got scared. Like a dumb little kid.'_  Sealand sniffs bitterly.  _'And now whenever I look at him I keep thinking about the_ other _him. I'm even having nightmares. All over something so small and_ stupid _…'_

America resolves to give the kid the biggest hug possible when he sees him tomorrow. 'Hey, don't call yourself that. You're  _not_  stupid. It's okay to be upset about what happened.'

 _'But it was_ nothing _,'_  Sealand protests.  _'Nothing compared to all the bad stuff that happened to England.'_

'Doesn't mean it doesn't matter,' America says firmly. 'Just 'cause it doesn't seem as bad, it doesn't automatically make it not bad at all. You know that. These guys in that Otherworld? They're  _dangerous_. And you  _met_  one of them. Of course you're upset.'

 _'Yeah…'_  Sealand says faintly.  _'But, like… I don't know how to tell him. We were actually… getting along with each other for once. Before I saw the other him. And now I stay away. I don't even really talk to the others either, 'cause I'm still angry with them.'_

America thinks for a second. 'I can help, dude. I'll be there tomorrow. It will all get better eventually.'

 _'But it's gonna be worse before that, right?'_  Sealand says in a small voice.  _''Cause the bad nations are coming.'_

'Well, we don't know that for certain-'

 _'No. They are. They're not done with England,'_  Sealand says strangely.  _'And they want him to know that.'_

America's skin tingles uncomfortably. 'What exactly did the other England say to you?'

But Sealand appears to be done with this conversation.  _'I should go now,'_  he says.  _'Thanks for everything. See you later.'_

'No problem, dude. Laters.'

America ends the call and stares at the suitcase for a few moments, suddenly wishing tomorrow would come quicker. He's never been one to shy away from heroics, and it sounds as if both England and Sealand need his help right now. Besides, this is more than just about stoking his ego; he's not as vain as a lot of the other nations believe him to be. This isn't for him. It's for them.

When the phone rings again, a few hours later, America knows what to say.

* * *

England has never particularly suffered from phone call anxiety before, but he supposes this is just one of the many things about him that has changed. Still, at least he's not in the state he was in a week before. He tries to imagine doing something like this back then, and cringes at the very notion of it.

 _'Yo, what's up?'_  America's voice is as energetic as ever when he finally answers.

'You don't even know who's c-calling,' England points out, a little amused. His squirming stomach settles slightly. 'This is a new phone. Do you g… greet everyone like that?'

 _'Yep. Some of my government dudes really hate it. So I keep doing it,'_  America replies, and England can imagine he's probably grinning impishly on the other end. He also takes note of how upbeat America's voice sounds, incredibly distinct from that off his counterpart's. It actually sounds as if he's quite happy that it's England who's calling, but England quickly reminds himself that this is probably something else America does with everyone.

' _So, you finally got a new phone, man? It's not super old fashioned, is it?'_

'I wouldn't even know. I missed a lot w-while I was gone.'

_'True. You got any movie requests? I'm bringing some films with me. You've got a lot of shows to catch up on too. I can't stress that enough.'_

England rolls his eyes. 'Funnily enough, I wasn't calling t… to discuss all the media I was deprived of.'

_'Okie dokie. So, whatcha calling for?'_

England is suddenly at a loss for words. 'Um… well…'

_'Ah. Just like Sealand. He didn't really know what to say at first, either.'_

England's mouth goes dry. 'Sealand called?'

 _'Yeah,'_  America admits _. 'I suggested that he was calling 'cause he already missed me, and I said that I bet you do too.'_

England snorts. 'D-don't be absurd. It's been about th… three days.'

_'I don't know, man. I'm pretty missable.'_

England doesn't even bother to point out that  _missable_ isn't a word. He secretly agrees, thinking back to how badly he wanted to see America and the others again while he was a prisoner.

'Is he alright?' England finds himself asking. 'Sealand. He, uh… doesn't r-really talk to any of us. Especially me.'

 _'That's what we ended up talking about, actually.'_ America sounds unusually serious.  _'I said I'd try to help him out. He's kinda got the same problem as you.'_

England frowns. 'Which is?'

_'… I remind you of… the other me,' America says after a moment's hesitation. 'And, uh… you remind him of the other you.'_

A cold feeling washes over England's stomach as he realises. 'The bathroom,' he says.

_'Yeah. He was pretty spooked after that. I think… I think the other England said stuff to him. Stuff he hasn't mentioned.'_

'Right.' England feels rather ashamed at having not figured this out. He supposes this is what America must have felt like when England was behaving strangely around him. Except for America, it must have been far worse. He endured glaring from England when the older nation was hallucinating, and had to deal with England completely breaking down in front of him. And until England explained why, he never understood why he was being treated like this. Maybe this is karma.

England had suspected that Sealand would be upset after the confrontation with Oliver. Stupidly, he had thought that maybe the child would want space, much like he prefers when something bad happens to him. The one thing he had thought to do, when he had just woken up on the plane and hadn't even thought it through, was to tell Sealand Other England's real name. He had thought that might open a conversation for them, should Sealand need to talk about it. But it hadn't. It had likely just scared him. He wonders if he should confront the child about it, and maybe explain that he and Oliver are very, very different people. As different as America and Allen.

But if he goes to talk to Sealand, he might frighten him. He doesn't want to do that.

 _'It's not your fault, dude,'_  America says.  _'And he'll feel a bit better about it eventually. I mean, you're feeling better about the whole thing with me, right?'_

'Y… yes,' England says, rather bemused. America, who usually isn't very articulate with words, somehow seems to know exactly what to say. It's almost… soothing. Scratch that, it  _is._

The warmth in England's chest isn't scorching, flaring and angry. It's calm. Comfortable. Nice.

Then, for the tiniest moment, a sliver of fear crosses trickles into his head, a few awful words accompanying it:  _He sounded like that too. The_ other  _him. He made you feel safe- until you weren't._

But America's voice suddenly breaks out over the top of it, lively and so very, very  _America_.  _'So. Movies. I'm thinking Marvel. You gotta get into it at some point, Iggy. I know superheroes aren't exactly your gig, but, well… you like the Doctor, and he's basically a superhero, when you think about it…'_

England smiles and closes his eyes briefly. There fear is gone just as quickly as it came.

_'Anywho, isn't it like, super late where you are? I mean it's half-seven here. You should totally be asleep, dude.'_

'You're right,' England says with a sigh. 'I should get some rest. I'll see you tomorrow. And… thank you. For what you said.'

 _'You totally thanked me. I wasn't expecting that to ever happen again,'_ America laughs. _'Sweet. But, uh, yeah. You're welcome, dude. Anytime.'_

When the call ends, England feels strangely at peace. For the first time in so long, nothing seems wrong inside his head. When he planned to call America, he had been frightened at the thought of hearing the younger nation's voice, concerned that it may trigger a hallucination and subsequently another breakdown. Which would be a damn shame, really, as he's been doing much better lately.

But aside from that small moment of panic, it all went well.

England's contentedness only lasts a few more seconds. A creak outside his bedroom door, the sound of something pressing down on the landing floorboard, immediately puts him on alert. He straights up in his chair and stares at the door, keeping quiet.

Judging by the level of noise the floorboard made, England is able to roughly determine the weight of the individual outside his door, and he realises it can't be an adult. It must be someone quite small.

A rustling sound begins, at the bottom of the door. England peers down and spots the person's shadow at the base, before a scrap of paper is pushed through from their side to his. The creaking begins again as the person walks away, and England gets to his feet, slowly making his way towards the scrap of paper.

Sealand's messy scrawl (something England has become fairly familiar with over the last two weeks, as the child tends to sign his drawings) can be made out on the paper. It appears to be a message, and a rather short one. Something Sealand has been wanting to say for days now, but has been too afraid to.

England feels all the warmth drain from his body as his mind takes in the words.

_**He said to tell you that they're waiting to repay you for all that you gave them.** _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> Does that last section constitute as even remotely fluff-like? I'm writing a fluff fic rn. It's so weird because it's the first purely fluff fic I've ever written, and it's for Game of Thrones of all damn shows. Like, yeah, that makes sense. Totally.
> 
> Was it USUK-ish as well? I hope so, cuz I'm feeling a bit bit USUK deprived rn. I need more fics about these two. I need to write some myself, probably. I do have a big idea in mind, one I'd very much like to pursue. I may get around to it (hopefully).
> 
> So that bit with 2P France: I was basically touching on this whole thing they mention about him on the wiki- that while 1P France is more about love, 2P France is more about lust. He apparently doesn't really go for romance- or even forming platonic bonds, for that matter- and tends to indulge only in sex. And while there's nothing wrong with not feeling romantic attraction towards people, I wanted to sort of write about how, once, he may have enjoyed certain pleasures, but now he's become rather unfeeling towards everything, he participates in these things out of routine alone. He remembers the things he once enjoyed and still indulges in them, but he doesn't really feel anything at all. He doesn't care about people. He sees potential partners as objects alone, to relight old feelings that can't truly come back. He uses people for this, unlike 1P France, whom I believe probably always cares about what he's doing and who he's doing it with. France has passion for any and all bonds- platonic, romantic, sexual etc., whereas his 2P not only has lost any passion he once had, but downright shows a complete lack of empathy towards everyone.
> 
> Yeah, it wouldn't be one of my A/Ns without at least one, unnecessarily long paragraph.
> 
> Also, I tried posting more fanart. Again, it didn't go terribly. Feeling a bit more confident now. This might actually be a thing I start doing regularly. Plus, I got a lot of advice and support from someone when I was feeling insecure, which really helped.
> 
> So, the next chapter should have the world meeting. I honestly can't wait to write it. I'm hella stoked for writing more badass England, because he deserves to be the one kicking ass for a change. He's really showing guts now.
> 
> I'll see you guys soon, I hope.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


	25. Hide Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, I'm actually back. I'm just as shocked as you.
> 
> Okay, I've gotta level with you guys. I owe you that. I've been having some serious insecurities about this story, and about my method of writing in general. They've been around for a while now, especially since around September. I've dealt with said problems by just diving into new stories. I've procrastinated Ash Song to the max, then struggled with it massively when I finally did pluck up the courage to start writing it again.
> 
> It's ironic, because your response to the last chapter (which was like two and a half months ago. Christ, I'm a wreck) was simply incredible. I'm serious. Not only were the comments amazing and uplifting, but some of y'all even sent supportive messages on my blog about when I mentioned getting cold feet. Honestly, all of that was the reason I finally picked myself up.
> 
> My main issue is the length. I love writing long fics. It's kinda my thing. That's probably obvious by now. I mean, I've written short stories too, but I've found that long fics are my main passion. I'm probably not gonna change that, cuz that would be like changing me. And that's not an easy feat. Believe me, I've tried. The thing is, though, I've noticed a lot of other people who read/write fanfics tend to prefer shorter stories. This is simply something I've personally observed. I could be wrong, but it's been preying on my mind a lot. Ash Song was always going to be a long fic. I just didn't know how long.
> 
> Next big problem: how regularly I update. And here's the biggest irony of them all: I've discovered recently that there's actually a really good chance that I may be dyslexic. Aside from that, I'm taking an Access to HE course, which is basically the equivalent of two years of A Levels packed into one year. And to those unfamiliar with the British education system, that basically means a lot of hysterical breakdowns at three in the morning, especially if you have shit mental health. I'm not sure if shorter chapters might be the answer. I've grown quite fond of posting big updates, but I might resort to it.
> 
> Another, minor issue: I bloody love canonverse. Like, so much. I can enjoy Cardverse or human AUs, don't get me wrong, but canonverse will always be my favourite. And that one really is far less popular than the AUs. So, to put it simply, I'm hesitant about posting future fics. I'm scared that they won't seem appealing, or whatever. I know this probably sounds stupid.
> 
> But, like I always say, I'm not giving up on this fic. It's still my main project. It still gives me purpose. And, despite all the shit I feel about it, I'm still passionate about writing it. I think those are good key ingredients to keep going.
> 
> So, um... warnings? A little trickle of angst here and there, but I've done far worse in the past. This might actually be more wholesome than you're used to seeing from me.
> 
> Sorry for all the rambling. I've kinda be needing to vent though.
> 
> Allons-y!

True to his world, America makes sure to give Sealand a very big hug.

He arrives at the house in Hampstead around eight o'clock, just as three of the brothers are eating dinner. Wales is the one who answers the door, and his smile does seem genuine and welcoming. He invites America inside immediately, and the latter is privately both relieved and disappointed respectively to see that Scotland and England aren't present in the dining room.

'Scotland's upstairs. He's not ready to be walking around just yet,' Wales explains as America follows him into the room.

'Probably is,' Ireland mutters, his mouth full of food. 'Yeh're just fussing too much. Yeh should let him try to get up and walk, I reckon.'

Wales rolls his eyes, and America focuses his attention on Sealand, who is already sliding off his chair to come and greet America.

''Sup, little dude,' America says with a grin, opening his arms out for the child.

Sealand punches him playfully first, before accepting the hug. 'Not much. It's so  _boring_ round here.'

'It can't be that bad. Plus, all the other countries are gonna be showing up soon. This'll be anything  _but_  boring.'

'Even sooner than you think,' Wales puts in. 'The meeting's scheduled for Friday.'

America is surprised. 'But that's like… three days from now.'

'Aye,' Ireland says gruffly. 'Wales had some bright idea to phone up the world leaders eventually, since a lot of the nations weren't listening. He even got the PM to beg them. If anyone can make all these nations show up, it's their bosses. And the G8's been bugging everyone, nonstop. And China. From what I can see, he's been pretty helpful too.'

'Yeah?'

Ireland looks a little amused now. 'England took over the call when I was talking to him yesterday. Probably gave the poor old bloke a heart attack. I joked about how England could make surprise calls to people to announce his return, but I didn't think he'd actually do it. He's full of surprises, that one.'

Beside him, Sealand tenses ever so slightly at the mention of England, but when America glances down at him, the micronation does seem to find this a little funny. He suppresses a small smile then tugs on America's sleeve. 'Come on. Let's go watch a movie.'

'Sealand,' Wales scolds. 'You haven't finished your supper.'

While the two of them begin to bicker, Ireland looks at America and says, 'England's upstairs too, but he's probably asleep. He's on some pills to calm his nerves and they can really knock him out. Not that I'd say his nerves are as big an issue now. He's had some weird confidence boost, actually. I think he's feeling a tad better now he's back in his own country.' He pauses, then hastily adds, 'Not that I'm saying that being in your country was bad for him or anything.'

'I know what you mean,' America replies, waving him off. 'Hey, you know if any of the others are coming before the meeting?'

'Germany's arriving tomorrow. Japan too, I think. I expect a few of 'em will show up over the next couple of days.'

Sealand is already back in his seat, arms folded in a strop. He sulkily mutters something about not being hungry, which prompts Wales to ask America if he's had anything to eat.

'I had something on the way here, but thanks. Do you think England will mind if I go and say hey?'

Wales and Ireland glance at each other. 'Well,' Ireland says, 'like I said, he could be asleep. But if he isn't, well…'

'We can't ever predict how he'll be,' Wales adds. 'We don't know when he's going to hallucinate, and when he isn't. I think it's worth a shot. He'll be happy to see you- as long as he does know it's you.'

'Plus, he's dealing with it all a lot better from what he can see,' Ireland says. He sounds gladdened by this, but he frowns as he says it. Wales looks rather uneasy too, and America wonders if they're perhaps sugar-coating it to make him feel better. He thanks them, shoots Sealand a wink as the child glares as his plate, then heads out the room and up the stairs.

Scotland will be in one of the spare rooms, although it's not as if America's planning on paying him a visit. The whole incident with Scotland's fall and the blame being thrown at America may be over, but things are still going to be incredibly awkward between them. America isn't bitter- at least, he hopes he can try not to be resentful in any way- but it's all still very fresh. He understands why Scotland blamed him, but he doubts they're immediately going to make up over it. He at least knows that Scotland feels remorseful about the whole thing. They've absolved their issues in the past- granted, said issues weren't do with the accusation of attempted murder- but they did learn to respect each other's views on England.

Another time, they'll talk about it. But neither of them are ready just yet.

America reaches England's room and knocks gently on the door, knowing that one of his usual boisterous entrances will not be appreciated. 'Hey, Iggy? You awake? It's me, dude. Just got here.'

There's silence for a few seconds, and America assumes that the other nation must be asleep. Then England's voice says, 'Come in.'

England looks very drowsy when America enters the room cautiously, but it's clear that he hasn't just awoken. A Stephen King novel is in his hands and he is propped up by pillows, looking tired but a little healthier in the dim light. The large bags under his eyes from a few days before have gone, and now only his droopy eyelids suggest how exhausted he is. America is reminded once again of how thin England has become, although he imagines England is probably starting to take better care of himself now he's trying to recover.

'Man, you look beat,' America says, a little awkwardly. 'You should give the book a rest. Give yourself a rest too.'

England smiles faintly. His eyes aren't wide in alarm and aside from one minor sharp intake of breath when America had appeared, his breathing seems regular and controlled. He's not hallucinating, which is something.

'I thought I'd stay awake t… to receive you,' he says, placing the book on his bedside table and pushing the bed covers off himself. He slides out of bed and gets to his feet, and America feels an instinctive pull, urging him to wrap England up in a big hug. America has always loved hugs. They're comforting, assuring. It's a natural greeting for him. But this isn't going to work the way it did with Sealand.

England's never been as keen on hugging, even before whatever abuse he suffered in the Otherworld. That shaky, desperate hug in the hospital corridor was a one-time thing, and America knows this. Accepting this doesn't make him feel any better. Holding him in that corridor, carrying him back to the other nations, hell, even bringing him back from that bar just two days after he first saw England again- these moments made it all feel more real than he could ever hope for. That England really was back, in the flesh, that he wouldn't disappear into a puff of smoke.

It's a comfort to America, the younger nation realises. Far more so than it will ever be to England.

'How was your trip?' England is asking softly, and America snaps out of his thoughts.

'Fine, thanks. I heard some of the others are gonna be showing up pretty soon too. And the meeting's in like three days. You, uh… you excited?'

'I'm not sure excited's the word,' England admits. 'But I am glad, I think. Everyone should k… know about this. Getting them to believe me is going to be the tricky part.'

_His stammer's not as bad before,_ America thinks, barely resisting a relieved smile. He almost points it out, then remembers what Canada might say about that sort of thing. His brother would tell him to be tactful and considerate, and that pointing something like that out might make someone like England overly conscious of it.

'Us,' he blurts out, and England blinks at him. 'Getting them to believe  _us_. You've got a team backing you up, Iggy. We'll help tell the whole story. Can't promise I won't make it sound super dramatic, though. You're like the hero. And Sealand.' He pauses. 'And I'm… wow. Maybe the kid's right. Maybe I  _am_ a sidekick-'

He breaks off when England steps forward and wraps his arms around him. The bigger nation freezes, suddenly very much aware of England's smaller form against his own, entirely here by his own choice with no coercion needed. This isn't like any hug someone has forced England into, and this isn't like the one in the hospital corridor either.

England isn't shaking, not like he has been every other time he and America have come into contact. He's not cold or breathing heavily. He's not in any obvious distress. He simply stands where he is, warm and still, face buried against America's shoulder. He doesn't quiver or pull away when America's arms close around him.

Strangely, America feels shaky instead. The thought, no, the reality of England seeking a hug is dizzying and unreal. After everything, after these last few weeks of trouble and mayhem and fear- this seems as if it must only be a dream. But here he is, in America's embrace; alive, safe,  _here_. Like those five years of absence were the dream instead.

'Ireland's wrong. About me feeling b… better for being back here,' England says, his voice muffled.

'You heard that?'

'Yeah. It's not like that at all. It should be the opposite, really.' England sighs. 'M… my country's where all the bad things happened. That I can r-remember so far. Right here in London.'

'This house?'

'No. Somewhere else.' After this, they are silent for a few moments.

'Hey, Iggy?' America murmurs finally, heat washing through his body and pressing against his cheeks. He feels lightheaded. 'I'm not sure if I ever properly said it, but… I'm really glad you're back.'

'Me too,' England whispers. His grip tightens.

* * *

The time structure of England's dreams is somewhat of a mystery. On some nights, the returning memories can span over several weeks, leaving him quite disoriented when he wakes up. Other nights, only singular memories will return to him, piece by piece. He doesn't need to just wait for night, anyway. This medication the doctors recommended has him seeking sleep even more so than he did in the hospital. His brothers don't mind; in fact, he gets the feeling they prefer it when he confines himself to his bedroom and sleeps for huge portions of the day. This way, as far as they're concerned, he is at least accounted for. They won't lose sight of him like this.

On the morning after America arrives, England awakens from what seems to have been two months' worth of memories. This is becoming less and less unusual, and he's noticing a pattern; the more eventful the memory, the more likely it is going to stand out and occupy his dreams. It's hard to believe that anything about the Otherworld could be considered mundane, and yet… the memories of all those empty days, devoid of contact with others or any traumatic experiences, seem to all blend together into countless days, weeks, months of remembrance.

Allen liked his scuffles. From what England can tell, he was made to fight with the other America at least once a week. Never with any weapons; he doubts the other nations trusted him enough for that. That's fair- no,  _smart_. That was a good call on their part. England knows what he would have done if he had a weapon.

Oliver was clearly more fixated on the smaller, subtler games. A brief and fleeting memory, likely triggered by last's night's pudding (a sponge cake that was brought up to him by Wales), has just returned to him with bright and painful vividness.

The other England had called him to the kitchen table, and placed two very small cupcakes in front of him. One of them, he had eagerly informed England, was good and yummy. The other had apparently gone bad, which was his casual way of saying that he'd laced it with cyanide, ricin or some other horrific poison that could easily kill a human and badly hurt a nation. Oliver had 'forgotten' which one was which, and wouldn't England be an  _absolute dear_  and test one of them for him? All he had to do was pick one.

England had taken both of them, knowing full well that both of them were bad. Without even thinking it through, he had enjoyed the momentary look of genuine horror on Oliver's face as he had he had shoved one after the other into his mouth, not taking his eyes off his counterpart. This was the first time he'd ever seen Oliver lose control over anything, and something about it delighted him. He'd been afraid, but the churning rage in his stomach had provided some much-needed glory for him when Oliver had begun to panic. Allen and Francois had rushed in when Oliver started yelling, and the memory had trailed off as the pain stirred in his throat and sent waves of agony through his stomach.

Clearly, he survived. He survived everything in that world. After all, they didn't seem to want him dead. They acted as if they couldn't  _afford_ to let him die.

_They needed me for something,_ England thinks.  _Something important. Maybe that's why they're not finished with me. They_ still  _need me._

From his estimations, he may have roughly six months' worth of memory back now. Maybe more, maybe less. A tenth of all his time spent there.

_It's not enough,_ he decides.  _I need more. I need all five years back._ The thought of it all returning was once a threat, something daunting and unwanted. The fear of something truly terrible coming back to him, like the incident with the wolves, had drowned out everything else.

Now, some strange, impulsive part of him yearns for memories off another proper confrontation with them, beyond those stupid little games they make him play. Something that perhaps gave him the chance he needed, to rise up and fight back. Something that will, today, give him the answers he needs. About why they are the way they, what made them this way, and what went wrong in their world. About all the terrible things they did to him, and whether he'll ever find any justice, if he hasn't already done so and forgotten about it.

About whatever it was  _he_ did to  _them._

_They're waiting to repay you for all that you gave them._ He clenches the note in his hands and stares down at the words again. No matter how many times he looks at it, it doesn't spark any understanding or memories about it inside his head. The implication is that he did something for them. But it wouldn't be something nice. Realistically, this note sounds a lot more like a threat, suggesting that he did seek to gain some kind of justice, and now they want… what? Revenge? Is that another reason for why they're not finished with him?

England stares at his bedroom door, wondering if he should go downstairs and try asking Sealand. He can hear the micronation and America downstairs, laughing and cheering at some video game they're playing. America, being America, hadn't thought to pre-book at a hotel, which was just as well. Last night, Ireland and Wales had both invited America to stay here, provided he was comfortable with the couch.

Sealand might feel more at ease if America is by his side. Perhaps he won't mind if England joins them. And maybe America will like it. Is it wishful thinking, to wonder if America is staying here for some reason other than free accommodation?

_I'm really glad you're back._ America's words echo in his head. They sound sincere- as sincere as England's hug had been. He'd truly wanted to do it. It had only been a few days since he'd seen America, but that wasn't counting the weeks' worth of time inside England's head, returning to him during every sleep. With his fear now relatively under control, England is free to accept something about himself: he's seeking out comfort, even in those whose presence cause him the most problems. All he can think about are those lonely months in the Otherworld, wishing to see everyone again. Wishing to be in their arms. Wishing to feel safe.

That hug had been… therapeutic. Cathartic, almost. When America had told him that he wouldn't be alone on the day of the meeting, something inside of him had broken. But it hadn't been bad, or painful. Before he knew it, he was reaching out. There had been no chills on his skin, no dizzying flashes in his vision. His paranoia at the thought of America pushing him away (not cruelly, but in his usual joking fashion) had still been there to some extent, but part of him knew that after everything, America wouldn't do something like that now. England had simply closed his eyes and felt a far calmer warmth than the angry heat spreading through him, and when America had reciprocated the hug, he hadn't felt trapped. Not even a little bit.

Overcoming his fear of Allen- or at least, managing it, seizing control of it- means that he can be stronger. Braver. That was more than just a hug. That was a victory. He wonders briefly if it meant anything as significant as that to America too. Probably not, but it's nothing to be bitter over. To his knowledge, America had no demons to conquer in that moment.

Despite all his reasoning, England makes no move to leave the room. He stays exactly where he is, simply listening. America and Sealand sound quite happy down there; the house is lively, warm, comforting. So different from his prison in the Otherworld.

When he turns back to the bed, it somehow looks less inviting than before.

* * *

England spends the next day longing to leave his room properly, to be downstairs with the others. It begins to feel shameful, like he's degraded himself to something pathetic and in need of comfort, something Allen would mock him for if he could see him now. And he just might be able to, had England not removed or covered anything in his room that casts a reflection. He's worried the other nations might attempt to make contact again, or worse. There could be another attack like the one on Scotland, and bizarrely this eventually leads to England going to one person in particular.

It is the night before the meeting, which is scheduled mid afternoon tomorrow. Aside from brief passes in hallways and occasional knocks on the door to see if he is okay and if he wants to come downstairs, England hasn't had much contact with the others staying here. Everyone must be asleep now, as they're getting up early to prepare for the meeting. He slips out of his room as quietly as he can and heads down the landing to one of the spare bedrooms.

He knocks on the door three times before a groggy voice says, 'W… what? Who's that? What time is it?'

'Quite late,' England says. 'May I come in?'

'En… England? The hell?'

'Good to see you too,' England mutters, pushing the door open. He flicks the light switch on and a few feet away, Scotland begins blinking furiously. Underneath his bed covers, it's hard to tell that anything's wrong with him at all, but England knows that the casts around his arm and leg are still there.

'Jesus,' he says, squinting at his brother. 'It's too bright. What is it? What's wrong? Has something happened?'

'Why would I come to y… you if something had?' England asks. He doesn't mean for it to sound so unkind, but a part of him doesn't mind when it does.

Scotland doesn't get offended. He sighs deeply and bows his head. 'Yeah. I suppose I wouldn't be much use, like this.' He looks up at England again. 'Yeh can't blame me for askin', though. We haven't talked in days. I figured yeh wanted to keep it that way.'

'So did I.' England pulls up a chair near a chest of draws and tentatively takes a seat. He's still not entirely sure why he's come here, to Scotland of all people. 'The thing with you and America is over. So… that's something, I s… suppose. Did Wales t-tell you he's here?'

'I'd have to be a bit deaf not to notice,' Scotland chuckles. 'Haven't heard much of yeh, though. Yeh weren't down there with him?'

'No,' England says quietly.

Scotland watches him for a second, then says, 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. Yeh can't help being scared-'

'That had nothing to do with it,' England says. 'Not really.'

His brother hesitates, carefully thinking over his next words. 'Ireland and Wales have, uh… mentioned a coupla things to me. About yeh.'

Of course. As if the three of them talking behind his back is any kind of surprise by this point.

'They're worried about yeh,' Scotland continues.

'What's new?' England rolls his eyes.

Scotland peers closely at him. 'They reckon yeh've changed a bit. And I think I can see it too. They find it a little… concerning.'

'They don't like that I'm no longer t… terrified of everything?' England responds, but he isn't surprised about this, either. He's noticed the uncomfortable looks his brothers have been shooting at him over the last few days when he is actually spending time with them.

'England, this new confidence of yers is good, alright. It's progressive. No one's disputing that. It's more the… aggression that's bothering them.'

This part does catch England off-guard. 'How have I been aggressive?' he retorts, feeling hot. He won't let himself get angry, however. He won't prove Scotland's point. 'I've kept to myself. I haven't argued w… with anyone in d-days. I'm-'

'Not to us,' Scotland says quickly. 'Aggression was the wrong word. I'm sorry. What I meant was… yeh're getting bolder. And it's worrying. Yeh're acting like yeh… yeh  _want_  a fight. Like yeh just can't wait for one of those other nations to show up again. Wales told me about how yeh were ready to take on that bastard in the mirror when he appeared in that mirror back in the hospital.' Scotland sighs again, his face pained. 'Listen. Yeh have to be careful, okay? Don't get reckless now.'

'What? You'd prefer it if I just cowered away instead?'  _Stay calm. Don't get angry. Save your rage for them, even if he thinks you're wrong to do that._ 'Well tough shit. I've had e… enough of all that.' England gets to his feet, annoyed not only at Scotland, but at how his legs are shaking slightly, and his voice is starting to quiver more again.

'Yet yeh've hiding away in yer room, haven't yeh? What purpose does that serve?'

'That's different,' England says furiously. But he knows it isn't. Not completely.

'England,' Scotland says seriously. 'We want those bastards to pay, alright? We want that for yeh. Yeh deserve it. And I'd like them to pay for pushing me, for scaring Sealand, for ever trying to mess with or hurt anyone in our world. They've caused enough damage.' He pauses. 'But all of that just proves how dangerous they are. So-'

'I know just how b-bloody dangerous they are. A lot more so than the rest of you ever will,' England snaps. He knows it's a little unfair to suggest that Scotland is just as oblivious as the others, considering how he was almost killed by Allen, but England is on a roll now. 'If you even knew half the things th… they did to me…'

'We would,' Scotland says heavily, 'if yeh told us.'

England shakes his head; not dismissively, but simply to try and refocus, to clear his head from all these outraged thoughts. 'I survived them before,' he says finally. 'And I shall do again.' His own words calm him slightly, even if he knows deep down that he survived them because they  _wanted_  him to. 'They won't ever t… take me again. And I want them to know that. I w-want them to know I don't belong to them.'

Scotland is quiet for a short while, then he gives a small nod. '… Fair enough. Just… please don't antagonise them. Don't provoke them to attack again.'

Suddenly, England is painfully aware of the world meeting in less than twenty-four hours, and of all the nations that have apparently promised to come. 'I won't,' he says, frowning. 'I wouldn't d… deliberately put them in danger. You know that.'

'Aye,' Scotland says, his voice a little gentler. 'Likely won't make a difference, anyway. These bastards seem to attack whenever they feel like it, regardless of whether they've been pissed off.'

England looks down at his feet, suddenly a little nervous. Despite it all, the urge to reach out in some way to those around him is resurfacing, and he realises that this may well be why he came to see Scotland this evening. 'I still get scared, you know,' he mumbles. 'Not as m… much as before. I just… control it better.'

Scotland gives a small smile. 'That's good. Are yeh nervous about tomorrow.'

England still doesn't quite understand why he's opening up to his brother like this, or why he can't seem to stop, and he decides not to lie. 'I think I might be,' he admits. 'I don't know. I've never been… very good with most nations. And I don't know w-what they'll think of this.'  _What they'll think of_ me.  _Whether my return will even matter to them. Whether those who always hated me will be disappointed. Whether those few who did care will be angry at me._

'It'll all work out,' Scotland reasons. 'One way or another. Yeh needn't worry yerself about that. Yeh won't be alone.'

_Like what America said._ England smiles slightly.

'So… is it true, what yeh said? These other nations think yeh belong to them?'

England takes his seat again. 'Yes. I think that's why you were attacked. B-because…'

'I hurt yeh,' Scotland murmurs. 'That's what he said to me, before he pushed me.'

'The way they see it,' England says darkly, 'I belong to them, t-to do as they please. Only  _they_  g… get to hurt me. It wasn't your right.'

Scotland blinks. 'Sick  _monsters_ ,' he hisses, shifting angrily under his bedcovers. The movement seems to cause him no discomfort at all, and England dully notes that perhaps Wales should allow Scotland to start walking around again; his wounds are clearly healing well.

There is a bit of an awkward silence after that, as they are both probably thinking about the reason England had been hurt. This whole business with America has been resolved, but other resentments still linger.

England's mind flashes briefly to that cold, dark morning in the park, where he'd completely lost all hope. Ireland has said something, about how all was not as it seemed with regards to Scotland and Wales.

_Just because yeh were pronounced dead, that doesn't mean that they gave up on yeh. It doesn't mean anyone did. Yeh ask Wales about it when we get back. Yeh talk to him 'n Scotland so yeh hear it straight from them._

But he never did. He'd been so distracted by everything else. And, sitting here, he can't quite bring himself to ask now. He's not sure why. Perhaps it's because he's as bitter as everyone always used to say he was, and he isn't ready to listen and forgive. Or maybe it's simply because he knows it will be a long and difficult conversation, and it's already very late. They both have enough to worry about tomorrow.

'I should go,' he says abruptly, getting to his feet again. 'It will b… be a long day tomorrow.'

'Aye. That's wise,' Scotland replies. He still looks quite tired, and England is sure he must do as well.

He leaves the room and heads back along the darkened landing towards his own, unsure of whether things between him and Scotland have gotten better.

But he knows they certainly haven't gotten worse.

* * *

The zipper on Sealand's coat is stuck.

The micronation fidgets with it, clearly frustrated. He, England and America stand by the front door, almost ready to leave. Ireland and Wales are upstairs, helping to escort Scotland down the steps.

'You're using the wheelchair, or you're not coming,' Wales's voice snaps, somewhere above them. America snorts with laughter, and Sealand takes a break from his endeavour to let out a giggle. Even England smiles, although it freezes on his face when he and Sealand lock eyes. The child quickly looks back down at his coat again, and England almost offers to help. He's raised enough former colonies for helping them get dressed to become a second nature to him. But he stays where he is and says nothing.

Eventually, America seems to notice. 'Here, lemme,' he offers, bending down to help Sealand out.

Scotland looks absolutely furious as Ireland and Wales bring him to the bottom of the steps and help him into a wheelchair. 'We'll have to get yeh one of those chairs that go up and down stairs for old folks,' Ireland jokes.

Scotland sends a filthy look at his brother. 'Yeh're on very thin ice, Ireland. I'll be spry as a spring chicken come Christmas. Just yeh watch.'

England briefly wonders what will be happening at Christmas. In the past, he usually spent them in solitude, although over the last couple of centuries as the brothers' relationships have improved in some areas, they have often spent more time together over the holiday season.

Sealand, of course, is the exception. He seems to enjoy spending most Christmases with the Nordics.

The zipper appears to be fixed now. America straightens up and ruffles the child's hair affectionately. England continues to watch, deep in thought.

'Right. We should get going,' Wales announces, reaching out for the door handle.

'Wait,' England says. His stomach is churning, almost as intensely as it did before he began to start controlling his fear. All of a sudden, the reality seems to set in: that he is about to see the rest of the world again. Or at least, the ones who do show up. The thought scares him, more than he wants to admit. And aside from his nerves, he has just thought of an idea. 'I want to do something first.'

Ireland shares a glance with Scotland and Wales. 'What exactly…?'

'I just want to go somewhere,' England says. His mouth is dry. 'There's something I n… need to do.'

Wales frowns. 'England, we don't have a lot of time. This meeting-'

'It's fine, you can all g-go on ahead. I'll meet you there later.' He swallows, praying that he doesn't look as nervous as he feels. 'I'm not trying to run, I swear. Besides, they shouldn't s… see me straight away. They'll need preparation. Like Scotland wanted to g-give the G8, before the entity…' He trails off.

Ireland seems to wrestle with the idea. 'I mean… he has a point.'

Wales still looks quite troubled. 'But where do you want to go? Is it important? Can't it wait?'

It definitely could, but England knows he needs to stall somehow. It's too soon to take another dose of tablets, so he can't calm his nerves with that method. 'I'd rather do it now,' he says. 'I promise, I w… won't take too long.' He turns to Wales. 'Why don't you just come with me if you're so c… concerned about it?'

Wales blinks. 'Well… I suppose…'

'We'll head over t-to the meeting as soon as we're done,' England continues.

'I don't mind tagging along,' America suggests, completely unfazed by the situation.

'No, yeh'll need to be there from the start,' Scotland sighs. Much like Sealand and England, he and America aren't making eye contact if they can help it. 'Yeh're the world's leading nation. Yer voice will be listened to.'

Wales opens the door, and a cold gust of December wind greets the group. 'I'll go with him,' he says. 'We won't be long. Right?'

'Right,' England replies, and the twisting nerves in his stomach dull slightly. He nods gratefully at Wales and steps outside. His companion follows him, bidding a brief farewell to the others.

'What exactly do we need to do?' Wales asks as they head down the garden path and England pushes the gate open.

England thinks for a moment. If he tells Wales the complete truth, the elder will insist on doing this later. But it's on England's mind now, and something about it feels right. It might not fix anything, but it will be a good thing to do. He knows it.

'Something important,' he says. 'Something for Sealand.'

* * *

Without Wales around to stop him, Scotland enjoys a few short minutes of trying to stand on his own when they arrive at the place where the meeting will be held.

They're not the first people here; in fact, dedicated as ever, Germany has been here since mid-morning, preparing the room for everyone. As Ireland wheels Scotland in, he notices an unusually large number of places have been set for everyone.

'Didn't realise we were expecting so many people,' he notes, watching as Sealand runs in between rows of desks, trying to find his spot.

Germany looks quite satisfied as he comes to stand beside Scotland, observing all the work he's put in. 'I was rather surprised, too,' he agrees. 'Fortunately, the majority the nations did agree to come, despite any previous engagements they may have had. I'm sure classing this event as an emergency and negotiating with the countries' leaders personally helped.'

'This is good,' Ireland says, grinning. 'This is  _really_ good.'

'Can I sit next to America?' Sealand shouts from the other side of the room, waving at them as he does so.

'Sure, little dude!' America calls back.

Germany frowns, probably frustrated that the seating arrangement he has been working hard on all morning will be disrupted, but he says nothing.

'So, how exactly is this gonna work?' Ireland asks. 'Who's gonna open this up? Who's even gonna be talking?'

'Have either of you prepared any speeches?'

'Er…' Scotland and Ireland both glance at each other. 'We've, er, roughly discussed the main points and whatnot-'

'I think they were planning on just winging it,' America says with a smirk.

'Yeah, thanks, America,' Ireland says, glaring at the younger nation. 'As a matter of fact, we have been working on this. Scotland thinks he should do the talking on our part, and maybe England too, if he's willing. Can't really plan these things with him, to be honest, 'cause we'll never know how he'll be feeling in advance. He might wanna talk, he might not.'

'Where is England?' Germany asks. 'I haven't seen him or Wales.'

'They're off on some little mission,' Scotland mutters. 'Not sure what it is, but they won't miss this.'

'Right.' Germany glances at his watch. 'We've got about another half an hour before everyone is due to arrive. I suggest you open the speech, Scotland, and if you feel you need assistance, I am happy to weigh in. I image several members of the G8 might want to talk about what transpired in the States.'

He seems a little restless, which is unusual for Germany. Scotland supposes that Germany is rather stressed about the whole thing, and probably worried about what might happen. 'Look,' he says, 'I doubt this could possibly go as badly as that first G8 meeting did. With any luck, we'll have no interference. We'll just talk about what happened at the G8, the threat we've all learnt about, and with any luck England's presence will shock 'em enough to listen after they've all started yelling at us about how batshit they think we are.'

There are about a million and one ways Scotland believes this meeting could go wrong, and over half of them involve the horrific fear that  _something_  in the Otherworld might interrupt them, or worse,  _attack_  them. His own close experience with death is still fresh and vivid in his mind, and three weeks of recovery have done nothing to replaying in his mind over and over again, both while he is awake and in his dreams. The memory of the fall is the worst part, far more so than the strange barbed weapon used to attack him, or the impact he can't even remember from when he reached the ground.

His talk with England last night was quite insightful. No matter how guarded England keeps his own thoughts, Scotland can tell that England fears similar things, and probably a lot more than he does. He suspects that's another reason why England is anxious about seeing the other nations- after all, his younger brother is convinced that those in his presence are more likely to find themselves in danger.

'Are you sure you wanna open with all the stuff about the Otherworld,' America asks, looking incredibly doubtful.

'It's… heavy shit, I know,' Scotland says. 'But they've come because they think there's a serious emergency. They're gonna wanna know what that is, straight away. So yeah. I think we should get to the point pretty quickly. I'll try and ease them into it as best I can.'

'This would be so much easier if we had actual, conclusive proof of any of this,' Ireland grumbles. Scotland almost agrees with him, only he knows that the only conclusive proof would be something along the lines of another entity appearing. And that's the last thing anyone wants.

'We have England,' Scotland says. 'Might not be enough. But it's  _something_.'

* * *

The countries of the world file into the room in a strange, sombre manner that America has never really seen before.

There have been plenty of mixed emotions over the many years these meeting have been held. All sorts of events have affected individual nations in some form or other, and brought a quiet severity to meetings in the past. But never have so many of them been so reserved or so serious, as if they've been informed that the world itself is coming to an end, and they have no energy left to panic.

There's so many of them too, far more than America was expecting. But then, this isn't the first time he has been shocked by the number of nations present for something so serious. The other major time, only two years before, is still something America thinks about a great deal.

Whatever awful emergency they believe is happening to all of them, it appears to really done the trick.

'They're going to be angry,' Canada whispers as he takes a seat beside America. 'A lot of them think this has something to do with terrorism; I heard them discussing it outside. They think they're all in danger.'

'They could be right,' America replies. He stares around to room, eyes trailing over all the familiar faces. They're all so oblivious, so unaware of what's really happening. The thought of bringing this news down on them is daunting.

'But they're not going to believe that. Not at first,' Canada says. 'When we tell them the truth, they'll think it's a joke. They'll be furious. They'll accuse us of wasting their time. They'll think this is some awful practical joke. We need to be ready for that.'

America nods. 'We will be.'

Over on their left, elevated on a slightly higher level than the other nations, Scotland clears his throat. 'I'd like to thank yeh all for coming on such short notice,' he begins. 'I appreciate how difficult this must have been for all of yeh, and I sincerely apologise for how quickly this meeting was called upon. I'm sure yer leaders have stressed to yeh how important this gathering is, even if they aren't actually aware of the situation.'

'And the situation in question is what, exactly?' China says immediately. Of course he'd be the first to speak. From what Ireland said, China briefly heard England's voice on the phone, and therefore knows that England is still alive- if he did truly believe what he heard.

'A  _potential_  emergency,' Scotland replies. 'Like we've been calling it. Just not the kind yeh all might expect. And I'm afraid that's where it's going to get complicated. This will be difficult for us to explain, and probably far more difficult for the rest of yeh to hear.'

'What happened to you?' Romano asks bluntly, ignoring the flustered look Italy sends him. 'You're in a wheelchair. How did that happen?'

It's common knowledge that wounds severe enough to incapacitate nations to this extent are usually only gained in wars. No wonder some of them are fixating on it, especially now it's been drawn to attention.

'That all ties in with it,' Scotland answers civilly. 'This wasn't an accident.'

'Were you attacked?'

'What happened?'

'Why here?'

Several shouts from around room go unanswered, but Scotland addresses the last one. 'Come again?'

'Why hold the meeting here?' Switzerland repeats. 'Of all places, why London?'

This is accompanied by a few uneasy whispers from quite a few nations. Not a single world meeting has been held in London since before England vanished. Even the smaller conferences over the last five years involving Scotland or Wales were generally held in their own countries for convenience.

'Because that's important too,' Scotland says, his voice a little fainter than before.

'Where are England and Wales?' Canada asks his brother quietly. 'Shouldn't they be here?'

'They're coming,' America says, his voice equally low. He, however, is growing a little uneasy about their absence. Surely whatever England needed to do should have been done by now? What if something has happened to them? What if the nations in the Otherworld have come for them, and no one here has any way of knowing that something has happened because they're all occupied with this meeting?

_You should have gone with him,_ he thinks to himself.  _The rest of the G8 could manage without you._

'Scotland, what exactly is this all about?' Austria demands. 'Why are we here? What issue are we all supposedly facing? And what's so important about this being held  _here_?'

Noticing his brother's struggle to find the right words, Ireland steps in. 'Something happened. Well… something to light, something… bad. Yeh see, Scotland was attacked by something. But this isn't some enemy yeh'd expect, or know anything about. This isn't a case of terrorism, like a lot of yeh may be fearing. But it  _is_ dangerous, and we feel that everyone should be made aware of this threat. No matter how impossible yeh're gonna find this.'

'A few people here are already aware of what happened, and can offer their voices to support what we're about to tell yeh,' Scotland cuts back in again. 'But we know yeh'll all struggle with this. No. Yeh'll all out-right dismiss it. And we would just ask that yeh  _try_ to hear us out-'

'Will you please get the point?' China snaps. He looks incredibly anxious about the whole thing.

'A lot of people here are scared, and rightfully so,' Hungary points out.

'These speedy arrangements made it sound like… like our lives were in danger,' Lithuania agrees. 'We all feared the worst.'

'Again, I apologise,' Scotland says seriously. 'The truth of the matter is, we don't even know if this whole thing does threaten the rest of the world. But that's a chance that it might, and we'd rather be safe than sorry. If yeh want to know the severity of the situation, this thing we're dealing with led me to getting pushed out into a seventy feet drop onto solid concrete.'

A few people gasp, and the rest are all visibly shaken.

'Who did this to you?' Switzerland asks.

Scotland takes a deep breath. 'Before that, there was an attack on several nations in this room. A creature tried to harm us.'

'What? An animal?'

'No. It wasn't any creature yeh'd know about.' He hesitates. 'It wasn't something yeh'd find in this world, typically.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'What he's trying to say is that it's more of an other-worldly type thing,' Ireland puts in.

The effect is instant, and America almost groans. Shouts of exasperation, anger and disbelief ring throughout the room, and he even spies a few nations smacking their own foreheads. He wonders if he should speak up yet and help out, but Scotland and Ireland did stress that they only want the rest of the G8 to step in once they've finished explaining it themselves, or if the rest of the nations become too unruly.

'We would appreciate it if you took this seriously,' the Netherlands says through gritted teeth. 'Considering how we all dropped our responsibilities to come here.'

'He is serious,' Scotland says. 'Completely. This isn't some game. The creature that attacked us was from another world.'

And then the uproar truly does begin. Countries from all corners begin shouting abuse in multiple languages, all blended together and incompressible as the volume rises drastically. Many nations even get to their feet, pushing their chairs back in anger, seemingly with every intention of storming out. On one side of America, Canada is glancing around in panic. On his other side, Sealand is covering his ears with his hands, glaring at all the enraged nations.

'SILENCE!' Germany roars abruptly, causing America and plenty of others to jump. 'BACK TO YOUR SEATS, NOW.'

Fortunately, despite the furious atmosphere and outraged indignation plastered on the faces of most of the people in the room, Germany's authority is recognised. In spiteful mumblings and angry whispers, those who got up to leave grudgingly take their seats again. America spots both Scotland and Ireland sighing in relief.

'Germany,' Austria calls out above the low chatter. 'You can't seriously allow them to play us like this. This is  _our_ time they're wasting.'

'What do yeh think happened to me, then?' Scotland shoots back.

Austria sniffs. 'Something with a far more reasonable explanation than this… preposterous suggestion. He turns back to Germany. 'Why aren't you saying something?'

'Hear them out,' Germany says shortly.

'What? You can't be serious! I would have thought you of all people would-'

'Hear. Them. Out,' Germany says again, practically spitting out the words.

'What are you suggesting exactly?' Norway intervenes, and America almost smiles. Norway was one of England's friends before the latter disappeared. A friend  _like_ him, someone with magic. He's sure to at least give them a chance.

Scotland seems gladdened by Norway's input too. 'It just so happens that one of us knows this other world. This other  _dimension._ More so than having simply just observed it. He went there. Not by choice. And bad things happened. It is about as much proof as we can offer. Our word, and of course, his.'

'Another  _dimension_?' Romano scoffs. 'Are you for real?'

'Who?' Poland laughs, as if the incredulousness of all of this has driven him to find some humour in it. 'Who went to this 'other dimension'?'

'What happened to them?' someone else snorts, equally amused, and more join in after that, as if the whole thing really is some big joke.

'What was it like?'

'When did this happen?'

'How long were they there for?'

'Five years,' a new voice calls out, sending waves of relief, concern and excitement through America. He turns, as does everyone else, to take in the sight of the newcomer.

England stands there in the open doorway, one hand resting on the familiar green hilt of something stuffed in his coat pocket, with Wales just behind him. His eyes flicker around the room for a moment, never resting on anyone for too long. From where America is sitting, he doesn't appear to be panicking or uneasy- at least, not visibly.

And somehow, disregarding all of the chaos that is sure to ensue, the only things America registers in that moment is how strong England suddenly seems, and that he has, in some way or another, gotten his knife back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> (One day, I might actually settle on a permanent url lmao.)
> 
> If you think my days of writing England making dramatic entrances are over then you are sorely mistaken.
> 
> Okay, I was planning on writing so much more content for this chapter, but it got too long. I even had to remove a roughly 2000 word long flashback scene at the beginning because I realised it would work best in the next chapter.
> 
> I promise there will be more world meeting stuff in the next chapter. And I'm shoving more and more USUK in too. I've been so deprived of canonverse fics about them recently. I would write my own, or at least try, but I think you've probably gathered that I don't usually write romance as a main focus. At least, for this fic, anyway. But I promise, more USUK is coming in Ash Song. And if I do ever pluck up the courage to post any of my other fics I have collected dust on my USB, there would be far more USUK for me to give.
> 
> In other news, at least the posting fanart thing is sorta working out for me. I'm quite proud of how that's all turning out. I can promise that however lacking this fic may be so far in USUK content, my art and all the other content I reblog on my aph blog makes up for it. I'm also like, so much more active on there.
> 
> Anyway, all that depressing shit and useless rambling aside, thank you so much to each and every person who follows/favourites/leaves kudos/comments/sends me words of encouragement on my blog. You have no idea how much all of this has been helping me. I think I should start replying to comments.
> 
> Thank you for reading, and remember to review!


	26. Not Today

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That awkward moment where you go on a tangent in your last chapter about how you should maybe write shorter chapters, and then proceed to go like 4000 over your usual word limit lmao. So yeah. Long chapter, my guys. (I still can't believe I originally thought I'd be able to put all the content in these two latest chapters into one. Nuts.)
> 
> Anyway, can I just say- holy shit. The response to the last chapter was utterly phenomenal! I had so many supportive messages reassuring me about all those doubts and concerns I had, and while stuff still hasn't been easy (I recently got a diagnosis for something- not dyslexia, unfortunately, still waiting on that- that really might explain why I struggle so much with writing and concentration, and basically handling any kind of putting myself out there, be it with fanfics, fanart etc.), the encouragement so many of you offered really has helped tremendously. I was incredibly self conscious about the decision at first, but now I'm really glad I vented in the last chapter. I've been more motivated and felt better about myself and my works in this last month than I have in like an entire year, and pretty much all of that was thanks to the kind words from you guys. That's probably why the chapter's so long too. So, thank you all so much! You'll never know how grateful I am.
> 
> True to my word, I've also been trying to reply to comments. While I haven't gotten round to all of them yet (mostly the newer ones, and the anonymous ones on FanFiction), I've actually really enjoyed replying to you guys. This is pretty new for me, cuz I'm usually pretty anxious about talking to people. I've been thinking recently that I want to be a more active voice in the fandom, however, which is why I'm finally posting my art and planning new stories to post- one of which I think I might upload quite soon.
> 
> Anywho, the chapter. Like I said, longer than usual, and full of all that angsty goodness. Or badness. I've gotta assume y'all like angst well enough, to tolerate this lengthy angsfest of horror (that's gonna officially become my alternative title for this story. I'm not joking). There's more USUK in this chapter than ever before in this story- at least I hope there is. I'm trying to slide more in, bit by bit. We're getting there. Oh, we are definitely getting there.
> 
> Warnings: angst, some horror, my usual gig. But with fluff at the end. Sorta. I'm surprised too. Also, it's the world meeting yo. We're finally there. Oh my god. It only took me over 2 years smh.
> 
> I would recommend the Imagine Dragons song Not Today for this chapter for obvious reasons. I basically named it after that. (If you're big on Imagine Dragons like me, I've noticed Believer also works quite well for England's new attitude and his storyline in general. That song is a good motivator for me too. It's empowering.)
> 
> Allons-y!

_The fifth of November, 2013, begins with a downpour of slight rain._

_It's been drizzling on and off for the last few days, although thankfully London was spared from the rain on the night of Halloween, and America and Sealand enjoyed a bountiful evening of trick or treating. Unfortunately, the next few days haven't been as exciting. America is once again on rather thin ice with Scotland, due to the fact that he neglected to ask whether Sealand could come along with him all evening on Halloween. He wasn't completely irresponsible, however; certainly not as much as everyone else would believe. He'd made sure to text Scotland and tell him Sealand was with him, and Wales_ had  _given them permission to hang out for a bit. Nevertheless, this hadn't stopped the eldest British nation from ringing Sealand repeatedly throughout the night, to which the child had finally, reluctantly answered._

_Since then, America has thought it best to stay out of Scotland's way, despite every part of him wishing he could go back and speak to Sealand at any given opportunity. Texting and phone calls have felt rather inadequate. Now that he has sufficient proof that magic really could exist, and that England may truly be alive out there somewhere, everything else seems irrelevant. Despite not knowing exactly what he's supposed to do with this information, or how it could help England, America is now consumed with an insatiable need to learn as much as he can._

_Suddenly all those dusty, ancient books lying around in England's basement, the ones the elder nation claimed to be full of incantations and whatnot, don't seem stupid or childish anymore. America no longer scorns what he once dubbed as 'England's dumb hobby'. Now, those books might be holding the answers they need in order to help England._

_It's a longshot, he knows, and a little too fanciful. He's seen England reading from them before, and knows it's too much to hope that any of them are written in any form of English, be it old or new. They're probably in some Gaelic language, or maybe Latin. America did learn Latin as a child, as England was rather adamant on it being taught, but due to its complete lack of use and the fact that most of his citizens these days have never learnt it, he fears he's probably forgotten most of it._

_As for Gaelic, he knows he'll be completely lost if he even tries reading it. There's no reason to believe Sealand will understand it either, despite his family's roots. Scotland, Ireland or Wales might be of help translate the texts, but why the hell would they do that? They all know America by now, and will grow suspicious if he suddenly shows an interest in something he typically wouldn't care for at all. Besides, America is trying his best to be a little more sensitive these days, and he knows how wrong it would be to arouse their mistrust, especially after he's finally made peace with Scotland. Worse, still, would be for him to actually get their hopes up, in the event that they actually believe him- and so close to England's memorial service, too._

_And so he stays away and gives them space. The last thing anyone needs right now is a fuss being stirred, or tempers rising._

* * *

' _If she'd had her way, which you think she probably would, they'd be holding it in Westminster Abbey,' Canada murmurs as he and America duck under the small archway outside the church to escape the rain._

_'Who?' America asks._

_'The Queen. You know she was close to him. She apparently suggested the memorial should be held there. But Westminster Abbey is, you know, a big deal. It's typically for royalty. No one denied it on account of England not being a part of the royal family, though. It was more to do with all the attention it would gain. The media would want to know who was important enough to have such a big memorial, and, well…' He smiles sadly. 'The last thing we want, really, is attention. This is a private affair. Her Majesty accepted that in the end.'_

_America nods. 'Is she coming here, then?'_

_Canada shakes his head. 'They're holding another ceremony later on today, within Buckingham Palace, I think. This one's for our benefit. The nations.'_

_The church in question isn't anything grand or splendid, but big enough to host two hundred or so people._ It's a little optimistic,  _America thinks rather bitterly,_ to think that so many nations will come.  _He hates himself for the thought even crossing his mind. He knows England didn't exactly have the best relationships ever with plenty of other countries, but then, neither does he. The difference is how they go about it. America always tries to be as friendly as possible with as many people as he can, despite any bad history he might have with them._

_England, on the other hand, always did have a tendency to let history cling to him a little too tightly. America often wonders whether it was deliberate, or if England truly wished he could let go of things as easily as other might do. As Canada would probably say, it wasn't so much about England holding grudges, the way many would believe. Deep down, it was probably more about guilt than anything. Due to the decisions and behaviour of his people, England was more often than not on the offending side of history. He wouldn't be the only one, of course. Plenty of other former empires probably feel weighed down by their peoples' actions in the past._

_America is idealistic. The knowledge that nations can never truly control what their people make them do should prevent them from condemning each other, as far as he's concerned, and yet not everyone can hope like he does._

_Nations hold grudges. They resent each other, despite all this. It's just the way the world works for them._

_'How many people do you think are gonna show up?' America asks. The only people inside the church right now are those preparing the ceremony. The North American nations are some of the very first to show up, which America almost finds amusing. He's usually late for everything, after all._

_Canada squirms a little, seemingly uncomfortable. 'I'm not sure. This… may not run smoothly. We just have to hope everyone will be respectful.'_

_'Why? What d'you think is gonna happen?'_

_'You've kind of… been off the radar, recently, haven't you?' Canada says with a small smile. 'That's a first.'_

_'What? Have I been missing out on gossip?' Truthfully, Canada is right. Since America's outburst at the last world meeting, in which England was officially pronounced dead, he hasn't really been speaking to anyone. No one but Canada and Sealand, really._

_'Things have been a little tense between certain nations.'_

_'When aren't they?' America says with a small chuckle._

_'People, uh…' Canada bites his lip. 'People started suggesting… some things. About pointing fingers. About solving what happened.'_

_It takes America a moment to understand. 'What, like blame?'_

_Canada glances around uncertainly. They're all alone under this little arch, and no one else can be spotted in the damp graveyard. 'There have been suggestions that it… wasn't an accident. Whatever happened to him. On account of how we never found any traces of him. It's like… someone went through a lot of effort to…' He trails off, suddenly rather pale, eyes full of regret. 'This really isn't the right time or place, I shouldn't be-'_

_'What are people saying?' America says._

_Canada swallows nervously. 'Well… you know how Scotland was supposed to be the last person who saw England? And how he said England was acting weird, like he was stressed out about something? Well. Um. People think he… uh… he knew something bad was going to happen to him. So, they… they think someone might be responsible f… for…' He stops talking again, but this time it isn't because he's worried someone might overhear them. His eyes are filling with tears, and America immediately feels terrible. Unlike him, Canada doesn't have the burning certainty that England is still alive out there._

_Canada only has grief, and the horrible suspicion that England may have been murdered._

_'Hey, it's okay,' America says quickly, knowing very well that it certainly isn't. He turns and puts his hands on his brother's shoulders, squeezing them gently._ Soon,  _he tells himself._ Soon, when Sealand and I figure out how to find England and get him back. Then, everyone will see. And it will all be better.

_'America,' Canada manages to say. It sounds like a whimper. 'I'm… I'm r-really relieved you're here. I know you… you don't believe it. But I'm glad you're… you're showing support. For his brothers. For everyone.'_

_America feels some strange, hysterical urge to blurt out something stupid and probably insensitive, like he would have done years before; probably something about how this 'support' can't possibly be for everyone, because not everyone is going to come. Plenty of nations are going to keep holding onto those stupid,_ stupid _grudges, whether they can help it or not, and they won't pay tribute to England._

_And even though he knows that England isn't really dead (or at least, he hopes. God, does he hope), the thought of this still upsets him in a way he can't begin to explain._

_So when the little gate opens to the churchyard opens and familiar faces start appearing through the rainy haze, filing through the gate one by one, America stares, and feels as if he can do nothing else. England's brothers are of course no surprise. They've been here already this morning, running in an out of the church with responsibilities to take care of. But this time, it looks as if they won't be leaving for another errand anytime soon._

_Following them are France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Romano, Portugal, Belgium, Hungary, Austria and Prussia. They look as if they've come as a group, which they probably have. Because after them are more. The Nordics. The Baltics and Poland. Switzerland and Liechtenstein. Russia, Ukraine and Belarus. China, Japan, Hong Kong, Taiwan and Vietnam. Australia and New Zealand. And more. They keep coming, and America can't stop staring._

_'I didn't think so many people would come,' he confesses quietly._

_'And we didn't think you'd come,' Canada replies, this time with a real smile._

_'I had to. In case…'_ In case I'm wrong. In case he really is dead.

_'I know,' Canada replies._

_'It's just…' America draws in a breath. 'I figured… I mean… so many of them didn't get along with him. So many of them don't get along with each other. And yet they're here. Coming together.'_

_Canada lets out a sigh. 'It's having completely opposite effects at the same time. While some are… drawing conclusions about each other, everyone else is… how do I put this? Sometimes terrible things can bring people closer together.' He closes his eyes, and America, for once, doesn't feel the ever-present urge to make a joke and lighten the situation. Because this is a memorial, and because people are grieving. He can see it on their faces when he looks at them. It shows more on some than others. But each and every one of them truly… cares._

_'They might not have gotten along with him, or each other,' Canada continues. 'But every single one of them is scared. Scared that it might happen again, to someone else. We're not like humans. Our deaths aren't common. You and I haven't even been around long enough to see it properly. We all have our issues with each other, and our differences, but at the end of the day… we're all afraid of losing someone else. And no one cares so little for England that the thought of what happened doesn't mortify them. This matters to them, regardless of whether they'll ever admit it to each other, or themselves. But them coming here is… enough.'_

_A couple of months ago, some stupid, insensitive side of America would have scoffed and told his brother that 'enough' would be to not give up on England at all, but not only does he refuse to behave in such a manner- he simply doesn't even think of it._

_He's touched, he realises, by Canada's words, and by the nations that continue to file into the churchyard. He wonders what England would make of all of this._

He wouldn't believe his eyes,  _America thinks, and then he too is smiling. He'll have to remember to tell England all about this when the latter finally does come back._

_On that day, everything will be okay._

_Just not today._

* * *

A few rooms down from the big conference hall is a much smaller lounge, with couches, tables and a few kitchen appliances in the corner. England and Wales come here first, to drop off the present for Sealand and to get a drink before the meeting. The room is empty, fortunately, and England enjoys one final moment of peace before joining the world meeting. His stomach isn't squirming as badly as before, despite the confrontation with the other nations looming closer. Getting the present for Sealand has brought him some peace of mind, as well as something else that he realises when Wales keeps checking the bag slung over his shoulder anxiously.

'You have the knife, don't you?' England says, almost amused when Wales shoots him a look of utter shock, like a deer in the headlights. 'May I have it back?'

'How the  _f-_  England, what-? How did you know-?'

'So you  _do_ have it.' England smiles. 'Thanks for the confirmation.' At the lost look on Wales's face, he adds, 'Lucky guess. You're concerned about something in your b… bag. Besides, you lot might not want me handling it, but y-you still know it's the best protection I have. Scotland saw first-hand what it d-did to the entity. So, whoever's supervising me has it. Right? You p… probably had it with you this morning, or Ireland slipped it to you w-when we left the house.'

'… You're too smart for your own good, brawd,' Wales mutters after a few seconds of silence. 'And that doesn't mean I'm just going to give it to you.'

'I'm not as… unstable as before. You know that.'

Wales drops his bag down on the ground and collapses onto one of the couches, looking far too exhausted for so early in the day. He lifts up one hand and begins rubbing his forehead, closing his eyes. England thinks his brother is being a little overdramatic, until his gaze falls to the dark circles under Wales's eyes, and he wonders why he didn't spot them earlier.

'You've been working so hard on organising th-this meeting,' he tries. 'Don't you need a break? Having a dangerous w… weapon on you and all the responsibility that m-might come with it isn't going to give you much rest. I can tell you don't want it.'

Wales opens his eyes and peers up at his brother. 'I'm not going to give it back to you just like that. Why are you so… fixated on it, anyway? I understand you feel protected by it, but… it's like you're obsessed. Back in the States, it was always on your mind, and I'm willing to bet it still is. Where did you even get it?'

England opens his mouth, then hesitates. He knows he should be more honest with his brothers- well, with  _everyone._ But his answer can't be vague; Wales will only persist with more questions if he doesn't come out with the full truth.

'It belonged to one of them,' he begins. 'He… used it on me. It helped add to… all of this.' He gestures at his chest quickly, uncomfortable with drawing attention to the scars on his chest that they both know are there. 'I don't r… remember how I came to own it.'

Wales is up on his feet in an instant, completely horrified. 'That thing was used to  _torture_ you?'

England winces. 'Among other things, yeah.'

Wales looks down at the bag, his face now very pale. '… Why the hell would you want that thing anywhere near you?' he asks, his voice faint.

England glances at the bag too. He can't see the knife, but the fact that he knows it's  _there,_ only a few feet from him, is disturbingly comforting. 'Because it's mine now. It's in my c… control. I don't really understand it either. I'm sure I w… would if I remembered how it became mine, but who knows how long that will take? It's strong, too. It killed that entity, and it… it can cut through metal, Wales. I used it on my first night back in th… this world, to get money for the phone booth. It sliced right through it, easy as anything. There's something  _special_ about it.'

Unlike England, Wales doesn't seem to share his admiration. If anything, he looks more disturbed than before.

'Look,' England says, 'I know why you don't w-want me to have it. I know you're concerned that I'm becoming… aggressive-'

'Who told you that?' Wales says sharply.

'Scotland and I had a l… little chat last night,' England replies, to which Wales groans. 'And he's probably right. I'm not going to lie- I want to fight back.' He pauses, then walks over to the bag and opens it up. Wales's face is uncomfortable, but passive. He makes no move to stop his brother as England pulls the knife out. 'I… want to use this against  _him._ Not like he did to me, but… I want to fight him. I want to get back at them all. And you're p… probably worried that I might hurt someone here by mistake. I was terrified of that too. Ireland knows all about th-that. But my hallucinations are getting better. I know how to fight them now. I think America d… does too.'

Wales doesn't seem all too panicked now, but his expression is quite gloomy. 'You didn't spend much time with him over the last few days. I thought maybe you were still affected-'

'I am,' England says. 'But I'm handling it. I stayed away because I thought it would be better for Sealand. He's frightened, you must have n… noticed. The confrontation with the other me really shook him. And I l… look like my counterpart.'

'It's not fair on either of you,' Wales says, visibly pained. 'You can't help what happened-'

'Neither could America. It's not fair on him, either. He can't help what his other self did to m… me, any more than I can help what the other me said to Sealand. There's not much I can do. Except, well… this.' He looks over to the present- well,  _presents,_ for the micronation, wrapped up in two plastic shopping bags.

Wales was quite irritated earlier when England purchased the gifts. He deemed it irresponsible and a waste of time, considering the meeting they were meant to be heading to instead. But he seems a little less annoyed about the whole thing now. 'A peace offering?' he asks, even giving a small smile.

'Just making up for lost time,' England says.

* * *

The closer to the door they get, the easier it becomes to start hearing the voices inside.

At one end of the corridor, the sound is just muffled mumblings, nothing coherent. As England draws closer, he begins to pick out individual voices, even if he can't quite hear what they're saying. It's mostly Scotland at first, but his voice is drowned out by an angry uproar of multiple voices. It's impossible to distinguish any words, until Germany's voice rises above them all, shouting at everyone to be silent. It's almost comical, it's so familiar. England is tempted to laugh, but he doesn't need to hear what everyone is saying to know what they all just grew upset about.

Scotland has told them the truth- or at least, he has begun to. And, as predicted, the nations of the world don't like it. Not one bit.

'Nervous?' Wales asks from beside him.

'I'm sure you already k-know the answer to that,' England says dryly, and the speedy pace of his heart pumping seems to agree with him. His skin is growing cold again, like it always does whenever he is afraid these days. He can pick out other voices now, those belonging to nations he used to know, nations he hasn't seen in over five years. Nations whose counterparts he probably encountered during his ordeal. Perhaps the memories will return more swiftly if he's around those who remind him of the countries in the Otherworld. Being around the G8, being around  _America,_ certainly helped- and not in a good way.

Any moment now, he'll be facing them all. And he has no idea what's going to happen when he does.

His fingers curl around the knife in the right-side pocket of his coat, and slowly he begins to feel it spreading through him from the point where his skin touches the hilt: heat, not soothing but fiery and calming in its own way. He finally has the knife back. His strength, his courage, his safety.

He takes the last few steps towards the door, and waits.

'We should go in when they've announced you're alive,' Wales says. 'I don't think they've done it yet.' He glances down at the knife in England's hand, just poking out of the pocket. 'Scotland and Ireland are going to be furious when they find out I let you have it…'

He trails off when their eldest brother's voice begins again, his voice far clearer than before. 'It just so happens that one of us knows this other world. This other  _dimension._ More so than having simply just observed it. He went there. Not by choice. And bad things happened. It is about as much proof as we can offer. Our word, and of course, his.'

'Another  _dimension_?' scoffs a voice that sounds suspiciously like Romano's. 'Are you for real?'

'Who?' another one joins in with a laugh. England's eyes narrow. 'Who went to this 'other dimension'?'

'What happened to them?' says someone else with a snort.

England clenches both fists, tightening the grip on his knife as a result. He barely notices, however. His eyes are fixed on the door, and on the images in his mind of all the nations inside. He can picture them clearly, wearing all too familiar expressions. The same sneering faces, the same mocking laughter, the same hostility laced underneath their words. Most of them despised him, and he doubts that's about the change. But the thought doesn't scare him; it  _enrages_ him.

He puts his hand on the door handle, ignoring Wales's immediate protests, and pushes the door open.

No one notices him at first. The room is loud enough already with snickers here and there and people jeering obnoxiously, so no one hears the door open. The countries don't sound as angry as before, but somehow their taunts are even worse, especially now England can hear what they're saying.

'What was it like?' someone from the far side of the room giggles.

'When did this happen?' someone a little closer adds.

'How long were they there for?' one final voice sneers, and England decides he's had enough.

'Five years,' he snaps loudly, stepping into the room and finally,  _finally,_ he glances around and sees them all for the first time in five years.

He's met with well over a hundred pairs of eyes drilling into his, sending his heart pumping into a chilled frenzy. The blood thumping through his veins, all the way down to his fingertips, reminds him of the knife, his protection. He straightens up, and the roaring  _thump thump thump_ in his ears is reminiscent of war drums from centuries before. This is all a war of sorts. A battle against their scorn and disbelief. Another against the other nations when they inevitably come back for him. One more against himself.

He feels the anger, like fire in his veins. He won't cower from them. He won't cower from  _anyone._

Behind him, he hears Wales whine something about how he should have waited, but he ignores him.

'Oh,' Scotland says, looking completely dumbstruck. 'Oh, shit.'

England has come in too early; his abrupt arrival was impulsive. He steps forwards, unable to focus on anyone for too long. Even with his burst of confidence, his situation is still unsettling. He spies a few friendly faces in the crowd, one by one; Scotland, Ireland, and various other members of the G8. (A small voice in his head, almost teasing, demands to know since when he started thinking of any of them as friendly.)

He spots America, Canada and Sealand at one point, and to his relief they all seem perfectly normal. Even America looks exactly how he should, and so England knows he won't have to worry about hallucinating.

At least, for now.

'Did yeh… did yeh have to barge in like that?' Ireland says finally, when it seems as if the silence isn't going to disappear any time soon.

'There's no emergency this time,' Scotland adds, his voice rising higher in pitch with each word. 'Please tell me  _there's no emergency this time-'_

'There isn't,' Wales says quickly, following England into the room. 'He was just-'

'Defending myself,' England interrupts. 'Is that allowed?'

Scotland looks as if he's going to have a complete mental breakdown right here in front of everyone. 'Christ- right, okay. Let's just- let's just all take a moment, and I'll explain-'

But there is sound now, coming from all around the room: heavy breathing, choked gasps, a few spluttering outcries. Nothing too loud, as most are still in numbed shock. But Scotland seems to release he's about to lose control of everyone's attention, and he acts fast.

'Listen, everyone,' he tries quickly. 'I- I realise how shocking this must be, and-'

His frantic words are interrupted by a several more gasps, and even a couple of strangled screams. Many rise from their seats, although no one comes forwards. England begins to hear his name echoing around the room in alarmed whispers, along with the word  _dead._ His fingers brush against the hilt against of his knife absent-mindedly, almost as a way of comforting himself, until he spots Scotland and Ireland both staring down at the weapon, still poking out of his pocket and quite visible.

_Don't be aggressive. Don't make them think you're unstable, or worse- dangerous._ He removes his hand from his pocket and shifts uncomfortably. Already the hushed voices around the room feel consuming and louder than they really are. If he can't find safety with his knife, he'll have to do it some other way; but as he looks around at the sea of old faces, they all suddenly seem like strangers. They weren't friendly to begin with, and they're outright daunting now.

_Something beginning with F._ Sealand's game of  _I Spy_  rings softly in his head when his eyes fall on Japan, and he quickly looks to his allies in this cause. His  _friends_ , if he could believe that's what they all are.

(And he really does want to believe it.)

Italy seems to be quite anxious as he glances around the room, but when he meets eyes with England, he manages one of his regular, wide smiles. Russia, too, smiles when England looks at him, and it's not even half as unsettling as the stares he's receiving from most of the other nations. Germany, Japan and France all give him encouraging nods. He is keenly aware of Wales right beside him, and Scotland and Ireland only a few feet away. They've organised this whole thing and are probably going to try their best to shield him when the angry questions come flying at him; whether it's because they're scared he'll lose his shit, or because they're simply worried he'll be hurt in some way, or perhaps even both, England doesn't know. But he feels oddly comforted all the same.

Finally, he looks back over at the spot where America, Canada and Sealand are seated. There are more smiles from the first two; an endearing and hopeful one from America, a soft and kind one from Canada, both of which England knows all too well. Sealand doesn't smile, but he doesn't flinch or look away when his eyes meet with England's.

'I'm sure yeh all have a lot of questions,' Ireland says, getting to his feet. He and Scotland are on a slightly elevated podium, usually used for whoever is giving a presentation. He towers above the rest of the room, clearly hoping this will give him some authority. 'If yeh could all just be patient, we'll explain everything-'

'England!' someone nearby hisses, far louder that all the previous exclamations. This is followed by a chorus of deafening shouts- not all at once, not indistinguishable, but clear and… angry. Of course they're angry. England shivers slightly. He's known all along that they would be angry.

They sound frightened too, as if his return is a far bigger impact than anything Scotland and Ireland must have told them about the Otherworld; but then, unlike the evidence for the latter, he is very, very real, for all of them to see.

'You're  _alive,'_  someone cries out, sounding almost mortified. England doesn't exactly have high hopes for many being relieved by his return, but the tone still stings.

The sharp, dry sarcasm comes flooding out before he's had a chance to think it through. 'No,' he says. 'I'm a ghost, and I've come back to haunt you all.'

Someone to his left, up on the podium, makes a noise that sounds like a forehead being slapped. It's either Scotland or Ireland and, honestly, England doesn't care at this point.

'Dude,' America whines abruptly. 'Don't even joke about stuff like that.' He sounds almost comical in that moment, an exaggerated but clearly fake look of fear on his face, as if this is some kind of horror movie. It's so natural and familiar that for a second England forgets about the unfriendly atmosphere and the chilling gazes from every nation in the room, as warmth blossoms inside him.

This moment of peace is interrupted when Switzerland spins around and sends America an absolutely furious look. 'You  _knew?'_

America's lack of shock must have been a giveaway. England sighs.

The younger nation is flustered at first, but quickly regains his composure. 'Of course I knew!' he chirps, light-hearted as ever. The room falls silent in astonishment. Despite it all, America is still trying to be as cheerful as possible. It makes the pressure of all the eyes on him feel less heavy, somehow, and England is appreciative.

'How?' Switzerland spits.

'I've been telling you all that he couldn't be dead for  _years,'_ America continues, grinning proudly. When the silence stretches out afterwards, he adds in a more humbled voice, 'That, and he, uh, showed up at the G8 last month.'

This brings attention to the other members of the G8 around the room, who are immediately hounded with questions.

'Last  _month?'_ Austria is saying, glaring at Germany. 'You mean to say you've known for- how many weeks now?- and you're only just telling us?' He turns to England. 'How long has it been since you… revealed yourself?'

'I came back on the f… fifth of November,' he replies, internally recoiling. He hopes the other countries are too distracted to notice his stutter.

'The fifth of November? The anniversary of your  _death?'_ someone snarls. England scans the crowd to find the culprit, but it's impossible to tell who it was with all the murmurs sifting through the group.

'Given what yeh can clearly see here today,' Ireland says, 'I think we should be amending that to the anniversary of his disappearance.'

'You  _told_  us he was dead,' China finally says, his face stony. It was only a matter of time until he spoke up, England knows. That phone call a few days before must have alluded him to the big surprise, after all. 'All this time, you  _lied_ to us.'

'We didn't lie,' Scotland replies. 'We thought it was true. We had no idea where he was, or what had happened to him, and we couldn't sense him any-'

'And  _you,'_  China snaps, turning on England. 'Just where the hell have you been?'

Scotland clears his throat. 'As I told yeh all earlier-'

'You think we're gonna buy all this bullshit about some other world?' Turkey demands, his voice booming. Others immediately voice their agreement. 'That is about the worst excuse ever-'

'Hey, back off, man,' America interrupts, no longer smiling. 'Just hear them out. This stuff is all legit-'

'The hell it is!' Romano exclaims. 'You spring this- this  _bombshell_  on us, and expect us to buy into some other massive and totally impossible thing, all to cover up the fact that he faked his death or some shit-'

'I didn't fake my death,' England retorts. His fingernails begin digging into the palms of his hands, and he begins wishing his knife could be in his hand. He knows he won't need it, of course, and it's not as if he  _wants_ to use it; he just likes the sense of security it provides.

This meeting isn't really going how he expected- perhaps because he hadn't really known what to expect. The cynical part of him anticipated anger, and with his luck, the same amount of hatred plenty of other nations held for him before all this. He hadn't really dared to hope that the welcome would be warm in any way; he had thought perhaps some of his former allies, some he might even call friends, and maybe even the few former colonies that didn't completely hate his guts might greet him nicely. But so far, he has been met with outrage.

_Allen would find this hilarious,_ he thinks dully.  _Oliver would say I'm not one of them anymore._

'England was taken,' Germany says diplomatically. 'This was beyond his control.'

'Taken by  _what?'_ Austria spits. 'Fairytale monsters? Like this creature that supposedly attacked you?'

Germany seems to snap, but not in the usual way. There's no outburst this time; he doesn't even raise his voice. He simply stands up, rests his hands on the desk and leans over slightly, his fists clenched almost as tightly as England's.

'You are all alarmed,' he says. His voice is quieter than usual, but it carries across the room all the same. And people listen. Out of every nation in the room, Germany seems to be one of the very few who can simultaneously hold everyone's' attention and garner their respect. 'You have every right to be. This is all too much. Perhaps you believe we should have told you about England first. But there really  _is_ an emergency, and the entire G8 can vouch for the validity of what Scotland and Ireland have told you. We were all there, and we were all attacked. We didn't want to believe it either, but the difference is that we had no choice. We were targeted by those responsible for England's disappearance, and we were in very real danger. Just as England was.'

No one says anything at first, silently taking it all in. Their faces are conflicted now; while it's clear that they still don't believe a word of what Scotland and Ireland told them of the other world, they can't seem to fathom why the rest of the G8 are defending the story.

'I swear… if this is some massive prank…' Hungary says, her eyes narrowing.

'Do you think I'm the type to behave so ridiculously?' Germany asks.

'But… but…' Estonia glances uneasily at England. He's far less hostile than some of the others, but he is struggling to put this delicately. 'England was alive this whole time. And he-'

'You never thought to contact any of us?' Switzerland says harshly, addressing England directly. 'Five whole years, and you never thought to let us know you were alive? We held a  _memorial_ for you.'

It's as if there are flames inside England's chest, searing against his skin. He can feel himself shaking, and it certainly isn't from fear. 'You think I didn't try?' he growls. In the corner of his eye, he can just make out Sealand shift restlessly. He can't see his little brother's face, but he imagines the child isn't all too happy with this accusation either.

'What part of  _he was taken_ did yeh not understand?' Scotland says angrily. 'Yeh're making it sound he was just free to come back whenever he wanted, like he wasn't their  _prisoner-'_

'You told us he was dead!' Portugal explodes suddenly, and England is a little taken aback. Portugal is definitely someone he would call a friend without needing to be too generous to himself. The thought of his long-time ally being this enraged by his return is uncomfortable. His fury subsides slightly, and he feels the unease begin stirring in his stomach.

'You- you told us there was no chance he was still out there!' Portugal continues, abandoning his spot and striding over to Scotland and Ireland. 'You told us all to quit the search! You said you couldn't sense his life force anymore! He's your  _brother!'_

England blinks. Perhaps he's misreading the situation, assuming the worst like he often does. Portugal isn't angry with him, or that he's returned. Portugal is angry because he was made to think that England was dead.

It is at that moment that England dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, there are some who really will welcome him back kindly-

'This is all ridiculous,' Spain pipes up, even going as far as to laugh nervously. 'This is a joke. It has to be. Whatever happened to him, it can't have been… what you're all saying. I don't believe-'

'Perhaps you should be listening to everything we have to say,' Russia suggests neutrally, 'instead of talking about things you don't really understand, da?'

Spain visibly shrinks under the look Russia sends him, and remains very quiet after that.

Germany opens his mouth to continue the discussion, but more movement from somewhere in the right-hand corner of the room grabs everyone's attention. Someone else is leaving their seat and coming forwards, except they don't appear to be heading for Scotland and Ireland, but for England instead.

England inhales sharply. It's been a very long time since he's seen Australia look so serious, perhaps not since the younger nation gained full independence. It hadn't really set any kind of rift between them, and much like with Canada, Australia has maintained a good relationship with England. He is certainly someone England has been secretly hopeful about over the last few days, no matter how hard he has tried to suppress the thoughts.

It really is so good to see him again, and incredibly relieving to see the look on his face. There are no traces of anger or disdain, only eyes open wide in shock and a mouth that is hanging open slightly, as if he still hasn't quite processed the last few minutes and registered that England is back and this is all really happening.

'England?' he whispers, coming to a stop about five feet away. Behind him, England spots more movement. Others are getting to their feet, and he can just make out New Zealand approaching too. His stomach does a full summersault, equally relieved to see another former colony with whom he has good relations, someone else that he has missed greatly. New Zealand's expression is much the same as Australia's, with the addition of glassy, glistening eyes. Eyes filled with what even England can't deny to be tears.

There's a moment- one warm, shining moment where it all feels perfect- or as close to perfect as anything ever could feel these days. Behind Australia and New Zealand are others, and around the rest of the room, more people seem to be relaxing, recovering from the shock and outrage. Not everyone, of course, not even close to a majority, but it suddenly feels daunting than before. In front of him, Australia is beginning to smile; a pained yet hopeful one, mirroring the thoughts running through England's head.

This is good. This is happy. This is  _safe._

_No one is ever safe,_ a distant, barely reclaimed memory of Allen's voice says softly in his head, and England is jolted out of his little fantasy.

Australia is coming closer once more, still smiling, but that suddenly doesn't matter. All that matters is the outstretched arms closing around him like whenever Allen and Oliver would haul his broken and wounded body around for their games, and the way the nations around him all seem to blur, as if he's losing his sight.

'You're alive,' Australia laughs gently into the crook of England's neck, pulling him into a deep embrace. England tries to smile, tries to respond, tries to do  _anything._  But he stands there, rooted to the spot, feeling the cold wash over him like the river that dragged him down.

The hazy sight of those he can see distort, the colours flickering around. It's the smiles he notices the most, however. The nations' faces shift from their looks of shock, anger and relief, to something sinister: wide grins across all of their faces, stretching and twisting. Much like that special smile Oliver reserves for him, the one that says that there is a brand new game waiting for him.

The thought alarms him greatly, and he finds his strength. He pulls away from the grasp and twists around, looking at each and every one of them. The nations are all gone, replaced by disfigured, inverted figures who seem to loom over him from all around. He twists his head to search for his brothers, hoping against all reason that maybe, just maybe they're here…

But in the spot where Wales was once standing, he's met with a smile far more frightening: a skull grins back at him, its eye sockets deep and dark and hollow.

The knife in his pocket brushes against his side as he backs away, and he suddenly remembers that it is here. The world goes silent is a huge gasp, and all he can hear now is the thumping of his heart and the blade in his pocket, softly singing to him in a high-pitched ring-

He means to pull it out, but his arm stays motionless by his side, unresponsive. He glances around the room, silently begging for someone,  _anyone,_  to come back. Over where America and Canada were seated before, he spies Allen smirking at him, and beside him a harsh, rough-looking man in dark shades who must be the other Canada. And on Allen's other side…

Sealand.

But nothing about him is different. He looks just as he did before, with his blonde hair and blue eyes and the light blue coat with the zipper that he struggled with only this morning. He isn't smiling like the others. He simply stares back at England in bewilderment, and something else that might even be worry-

_Run!_ England wants to scream, but he is frozen once more, his lips unable to move.  _Get away from them! Run!_

But just like England, Sealand is surrounded by them all. And as he watches, they turn their smiles on the child, rising above him, smothering him-

'England!  _England!'_

Wales's voice, hushed but frantic, cuts over the image like static. England blinks, and suddenly all he can see is a whole group of people staring at him in utter confusion. Less than three feet away, Australia is horrified, glancing around uncertainly as if someone will give him an explanation.

'Is he okay?' he asks worriedly. 'Did I do something wrong?'

'No,' Wales says quickly. 'It's fine, it's not your fault. Just- England, can you hear me?'

England tries to nod, but his head is stiff. He feels his body quivering instead.

'Brawd,' Wales says, stepping in front of him. He reaches out but doesn't touch England, simply holding up his hands carefully. 'Do you need to leave?'

'What's wrong with him?' someone calls out.

'Mind yer business!' Ireland snaps, his voice closer than before. England finally manages to turn his head, awkwardly, to see his brother approaching, thick red eyebrows furrowed in concern.

'What happened?' he asks quietly when he reaches them. 'Is he hallucinating?'

'I think so,' Wales says.

'Is he  _what?'_ Australia asks, panicking.

'Don't worry yerself, lad,' Ireland says. 'Why don't yeh go back to yer seat, alright? We'll handle this.'

'What's going on?' another voice demands.

'I- I-' England struggles to find the right words, and is surprised that he can even muster any at all. 'I have t-to go-'

'Alright,' Wales says, nodding. 'Okay. Do you want to go sit in that lounge we were in before? Do you want anyone to come with you, or-'

'No,' England says quickly. 'No. I just- I just need- I-'

He doesn't miss the frightened, upset look on Australia's face as the younger nation turns to head back to his seat, or the sorrowful way Wales and Ireland both remain where they are stood, neither following England when he begins backing away towards the door. He knows they're keeping their distance because of his aversion to touch. He knows they're respecting his boundaries.

(Despite this, it still hurts.)

'I w-won't run,' he promises, wondering if that's still a concern.

'We know,' Wales assures him. 'It's alright.'

England glances over in Sealand's direction before he turns to face the door. His little brother is visible and unharmed, still confused like before. Beside him, America and Canada are sharing alarmed glances. When the former turns to look at him, eyes as blue as ever, England almost sobs.

He's out the door quite quickly after that, feeling his legs move almost mechanically beneath him. The corridor seems to go on forever and ever, and it feels like an eternity before he finally reaches the little lounge, wrenches the door open, and slams it once he's inside.

He knows the truth, for certain. This is more than just speculation now. The nations of the world triggered a memory that is yet to properly return to him, and he saw it for himself.

There's far more than just Allen, Oliver and Francois in his memories.

At some point, somehow, he met the rest of their world too.

* * *

'Where the hell do yeh think yeh're going?' Ireland demands as America heads for the door.

'After England,' he replies. 'Obviously.'

'No. Being around people is the last thing he needs right now,' Ireland retorts, stepping in front of America and blocking his way. Fortunately for America, he is one of the few people in this room who has the strength to barge past just about anyone. He is about to do so, but Ireland isn't finished.

'No offence, America, but I don't think-'

'You really think leaving him alone is a good idea? After all the shit these other nations have done so far?' America says, keenly aware of how loud his voice is. He no longer cares what his fellow countries might hear or believe. 'What if one of them shows up, and none of us are around to help?'

'He has his pretty knife back, from what I could see,' Russia's voice calls out from behind him. 'So he's not unprotected.'

'Yeah, and that's another thing!' Ireland exclaims, rounding on Wales. 'What the ruddy hell possessed yeh to give that thing back to him?'

'He- he figured out I had it!'

'What, so yeh just  _let_  him take it-?'

'Guys,' America says, cutting over their argument. 'The only good reason for me not going to him is if he doesn't want me there. Right?'

'He won't want anyone in there,' Ireland grumbles. 'He's freaking out right now, he won't-'

'Wait,' Wales says suddenly, deep in thought. He looks at America. 'Yeah. You should go.'

'Wait- what?' Ireland says incredulously.

Wales is determined. 'England said you know how to make the hallucinations stop,' he says the America.

'Um…' America rubs his hands together nervously. 'I mean, sorta. He told me what I needed to say and do, so I did, and… and it stopped, yeah.'

'So,' Wales says, 'it should be you.'

Ireland frowns at Wales. 'Are yeh sure about this?'

'He's happy to see America, when he isn't panicking. And if America knows how to make him stop panicking, then-'

'Gotcha.' America ignores the shouts from around the room, demanding to know what's going on, and moves past Ireland, heading for the door.

'Just remember,' Ireland shouts after him, 'if he doesn't want yeh in there, yeh leave! Alright?'

'Already said I would,' America mutters, rolling his eyes. He expects others might try to get to England, but with any luck, England's brothers should be able to hold them off.

He finds the small lounge easily enough, at the other end of the corridor. At this distance, the sounds in the meeting room are completely muffled and unintelligible, which is kind of refreshing. Ignoring his nerves as best he can (because what if England's still hallucinating and America only makes it all worse?), he knocks on the door.

No voice from inside tells him to come in or to go away, and at first he worries that England isn't in there at all, and has left the building altogether. He opens the door and peers in to check, and is relieved to find England on one of the couches, curled up in a ball, his arms wrapped around his legs and his head buried between his knees. He looks small and vulnerable, two things that America has always found incredibly unsettling to ever see in England.

'Hey, dude,' he says, his voice low. 'It's me. Uh… I'm supposed to say stuff that sounds like me, right? What- what do I usually say? I mean, should I just act natural? Would that work?'

England lifts his head up and smiles at him, very weakly. 'I'm not hallucinating anymore.'

'Oh,' America says, feeling stupid. 'Right. That's- that's good. Do, uh… do you wanna be alone, or are you cool with me being here?'

England breathes in and out heavily. 'Stay. It's f… fine. And… I'd like…' He trails off, and America is reminded how England always used to behave whenever he was open about how he was really feeling: awkward, embarrassed, sensitive. Vulnerable too, a lot of the times. And America would have often exploited that. Teased him, made fun of him, mocked him.

Perhaps acting like himself isn't always such a good thing.

He approaches slowly and takes a seat on an opposite couch. He has no idea what to say. If he's too considerate, too empathetic, too much like a version of himself that England doesn't really know, the older nation might not recognise him and start hallucinating again. On the other hand, he really doesn't want to act like a dick. His head is bursting with questions about what England saw back in the meeting room, but he knows he needs to be tactful. England probably doesn't want to talk about it.

'I gotta say, Iggy,' America says finally. 'This is shaping up to be the most interesting world meeting in history.'

England lets out a low chuckle. 'You th-think so?'

'Oh, definitely.' America leans back slightly, growing more comfortable.

'I doubt the other n… nations share your enthusiasm,' England says wistfully. 'I knew it w… would be bad, but… I don't think I w-was actually prepared for it. They don't seem t-too happy about my return.' He chuckles darkly, although nothing about it amuses him or America.

'They're just a bit freaked out right now,' America says optimistically. 'We've just gotta give 'em the chance to chill out a bit.'

'Right. Yeah.' England stares off into nothing, seemingly distracted. His face is ashen from whatever horrid hallucination he had in the meeting room, but nothing about him is frantic or restless; if anything, he seems quite exhausted now. And sad. He must be miserable about the awful thing he must have seen, or perhaps he's disheartened about the reception altogether. America frowns. Maybe England's letting it all get to him- he's always been good at doing that, unfortunately. Maybe-

They both jump slightly at the sound of the door opening. Sealand steps into the room, hesitant and nervous. He looks at America mostly, but his gaze does flicker over to England every few seconds. England himself uncurls himself and watches his little brother with a very strange look; alarmed, and quite concerned too.

'How'd you get outta there?' America asks, going for a humorous tone.

Sealand grins at him. 'I slipped past Ireland when he was arguing with a bunch of other countries. I don't think anyone spotted me.'

'Ooh, sneaky. Like a ninja.'

'I have something f… for you,' England says unexpectedly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

'… Yeah?' Sealand asks, equally quiet. America wonders if this is the first time they've talked over since the incident in the bathroom. He certainly hasn't seen them interacting while he's been staying with them.

England gets to his feet, a little wobbly, and America a pull tugging at him, to get up and help England should he need it. But he needn't worry; the older nation is steady quick enough, and he heads over to the table in the corner where America spots a couple of plastic bags resting on the surface.

'Do I get a present too?' he teases, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between the other two.

England pauses. 'You'll w-wait 'til Christmas.'

'Ha ha! I get mine early!' Sealand boasts, shooting a victorious glance at America.

'These are b… belated,' England says, lifting up the bags and handing them to Sealand when the child is close enough. 'That's why.'

Sealand stares at England in confusion, then looks down at the contents of the bag. Immediately, his face lights up in complete delight. 'No way!'

'Now, don't eat them all at once,' England chides in that former guardian voice that America recognises all too well. 'They'll r… ruin your teeth. In fact, d… don't even eat a single box all at once. And w-wait 'til after lunch.'

Sealand looks back up and England, and there doesn't appear to be a single trace of fear in his expression. 'They're all for me?'

'What are they?' America asks curiously. He gets to his feet and comes over to inspect the mysterious contents of the bags.

With a huge grin, Sealand proudly holds them out so he can see. 'Five boxes of  _Cadbury's_  chocolates!'

'Wales thought I'd lost my mind,' England mutters.

America laughs. 'Are you gonna share or what?' he asks Sealand, but the kid immediately pulls the chocolates away from him.

'Maybe,' he says with a cheeky grin.

'Why five?' America asks. Surely England, the guy who literally just went on a tangent about eating them carefully, would have thought one would be best?

'Five Christmases,' England murmurs, as if that explains everything. America has no idea what he means, but Sealand seems to understand. His smile falls away, but what remains is not unhappy. He puts the bags back on the table and looks up at his brother, twitching a little nervously. But it is not England he is afraid of, America can tell.

The kid tilts his head slightly, as if he's asking a question, and America almost misses the tiny, subtle nod that England returns. And then, right before his eyes, Sealand steps forwards and wraps his arms around England's waist.

'Thanks,' he mumbles awkwardly, then pulls away quickly and rushes off towards the door, snatching the bags of chocolates off the table as he does so. He's gone in an instant, and America almost believes he might have imagined what he just witnessed.

'That was… really sweet,' he says, referring to both England's gift and Sealand's hug.

England is red in the face, a stark contrast from the disturbing paleness in his cheeks only moments before. 'I… didn't expect that to go so well. I thought it w-would be like everything else today. A complete d… disaster.'

Something inside America's stomach wrenches slightly. The reunion with the other nations has really fazed England, and not entirely because of the hallucination. America could hear all those angry voices, just as clearly as anyone else. It would be just like England to take it the wrong way, to assume they're angry  _at_ him and that they're unhappy he's alive.

That couldn't be further from the truth. The memorial two years ago proved that.

'Do you wanna get outta here?' America blurts out.

England blinks in surprise. 'And go where?'

America shrugs, trying to appear casual. 'Back home. I mean, your home. Obviously. Not much point sticking around here, right? You probably weren't planning on re-joining them, and your brothers will wanna keep you away after… after what happened in there. So…'

England thinks for a second. 'I promised th… them I wouldn't run…'

'This isn't running,' America says quickly, flashing as confident a grin as he can muster. 'Especially if we tell 'em what we're doing. Come on, Iggy. We'll just come back for the meeting tomorrow. I bet everyone will have calmed down by then. Plus, I think that's enough drama for one day.'

'Since when do you grow t-tired of drama?' England asks, raising an eyebrow. He sounds slightly amused, and this pleases America greatly.

'Even I have my limits,' he admits, almost faltering with the honesty of his next words. 'And, anyway… I'm not doing this for me.'

* * *

For the first time in days, the house is quiet. America knows that he and Sealand are the main reason for why it's been so noisy lately, and in truth he has enjoyed the boisterous and energetic atmosphere… but after all the sound from today, the silence is quite welcoming.

England seems to think so too. He is far less tense by the time they step inside and close the door. He heads upstairs almost immediately, murmuring something about how tired he is. America doesn't doubt it. By this point, England looks completely shattered.

But concern gnaws away at America as he takes a seat on a couch in the living room and turns on the TV. He soon finds himself unable to concentrate on the screen, too wrapped up in his own mind. For a moment, he almost misses the days from years before where he was so consumed by denial that he even refused to admit to himself how worried he could be about England. Times were simpler back then.

America narrows his eyes. No. No, they weren't. He just made everything complicated in the past. Everything is clearer  _now._

He glances over at the open door to the hallway, where the staircase is just in sight. England must be in his room by now, perhaps already asleep. Maybe it would be best not to bother him. Maybe he won't want to see anyone else today- especially the one person who seems to cause his hallucinations the most.

America thinks of that look on England's face when he talked about the other nations, and the misery and apprehension that seemed to cling to every word he said.

_He thinks they're angry he's back,_  America concludes, surer than ever, and his feet are already taking him to the staircase before he registers anything else.

Just as tentatively as before, America knocks gently on the door and waits, hoping. Once again, England doesn't say anything, but America opens the door slightly and squints in the dim light. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon, England has closed the curtains and room is dark.

'Iggy?' America whispers. 'You awake?'

He spots England on the bed, curled up once more, this time lying down. His back is to the door and America can't tell if he's awake or asleep, until England lifts up his head and twists it around to peer back at him.

'I can go,' America says hurriedly. 'This can wait.'  _No, it can't,_ he reprimands himself immediately. England needs to know. 'It's just… there's some stuff I wanted to tell you about.'

England shifts his body around so that he's facing America. His eyes are heavily lidded now, but he still gestures at the other nation to approach.

America closes the door behind him and walks over to the bed, nervously taking a seat at one end. He tries to ignore the prickling unease at the feeling of England's tired, wary eyes on him.

'If you want me to go, I'll go,' America offers, praying that England won't. 'I promise, dude. I wanna be here, but it's your call. One hundred percent.'

'… Don't go. Stay,' England says eventually, in a very small voice. Much like whenever he used to get too drunk, his exhaustion has lowered his usual defences. America is somewhat gladdened.

'See? I knew you wouldn't be able to resist my charm,' he teases, hoping that his attitude is familiar enough without sounding too obnoxious- or God forbid,  _cruel._

England smiles softly, and America's nerves wash away.

'So,' he begins, shifting closer on the bed. 'I've got this story for you. Like I've been saying, I totally need to catch you up on all the stuff you missed. I think you'll like this one.'

England says nothing, his head simply resting on the pillow and his weary eyes watching America as he continues.

'A couple of years ago, there was this big gathering in the UK,' America goes on. 'At first, I didn't wanna come. I had some… personal issues with it. Disagreements with others and stuff. But I was being an asshole about it. So, eventually, I decided to come.'

He doesn't miss the way England's eyes widen when he criticises himself, and he gives an awkward smile. 'Took me a while to see it. Canada helped. And Sealand. And Scotland, funnily enough. Long story. Anyway, the point is I showed up early on the day. I didn't think many people were gonna come. Not 'cause I thought they shouldn't. In the end, even though I felt differently about the whole thing… I wanted everyone to come. I felt they should. That it was right. That… that it was what you deserved.'

England doesn't frown or ask questions, and doesn't give any indication that he is confused. He must have already figured out what America is talking about.

'I was mad, even before it happened,' America admits. 'I was kinda stupid. I just assumed hardly anyone would show up, and it pissed me off. I thought people wouldn't care, and I thought that they  _should._ I thought they'd still be clinging to the past, or that it wouldn't really matter that much to them, even though by then I  _knew_ that… that it's harder for some people.' He averts his eyes from England stares at the bed covers. 'That stuff affects us all differently, and we can't all deal with it the same way. That some people can't help how they feel about things, and yet they still make an effort anyway, to try and fight it.'

He's very much aware of how mature he sounds in that moment, and he's afraid to look back and England in case the older nation has grown suspicious or fearful of his strange behaviour. He wonders if he should make a joke to lighten the situation, but the thought feels wrong. This is a serious matter, and he needs England to hear all of what he has to say.

'I was wrong about them,' he says. 'Because you know what? People started showing up. Lots of them. Far more than I ever expected. Like with this meeting today, actually. Around the same number. You wouldn't have believed it. I barely could. But it felt  _right.'_

He takes a deep breath. 'Canada talked about how… sometimes, people really can put the past behind them, when something means enough to them. That tragedies can bring us all closer together. The world wasn't in a good way at the time. Nations were pretty hostile with each other. Fingers were being pointed. But it all kinda went away for one day. Like this thing mattered more to them than… all of that.'

He finally plucks up the courage to look back at England, only to find his eyes glistening slightly. America can barely believe it. The last time he saw England cry was over a week ago in the hospital, when the older nation had woken up from some kind of nightmare. It doesn't feel as disturbing now as it did then, however. These aren't tears of fear or pain, but of something gentler and more emotional.

America clears his throat. He doesn't pretend he didn't see, but he refuses to make a spectacle of it. He wants England to know he sees, and that he won't treat him badly for it. 'The world came to say goodbye,' he says. 'And I think it really mattered to everyone. Because, at the end of the day, we were all scared and hurt, and we missed you. So damn badly. Not just me, or Canada, or your brothers- everyone who showed up to that memorial. The same people in that meeting today, the same people who are angry now- not 'cause you're back, but 'cause they spent five years searching and then grieving for someone who wasn't really dead. You saw how Australia and some of the others were. You've gotta know how much this all means to everyone, even the ones who were angry. Because they really did care. Some of them-  _us-_ just weren't able to realise that until you were gone.'

Their eyes meet, and America's vision begins to blur. The tears are a small relief; he's not sure he'd be able to look at England's expression clearly right now, and he's certain it would probably break him even more. And so the two remain quiet for a few moments as the words sink in.

'I know what we're all scared about the Otherworld,' America murmurs eventually. 'We're all worried that it's gonna get worse. That something bad is gonna happen. And I know today was bad. But… it can always get better, too.'

He blinks several times to clear away the tears, and when his vision clears he finds England with his green eyes full of tears and his sincerest smile yet; full of a deep sadness, but hopeful all the same. Hope that America realises he has planted there, that he has  _inspired._  And there's relief too, a small but glimmering amount of joy buried in those eyes. Relief about the other nations, perhaps, and the way they really feel. England believes him.

'Thank you,' he whispers, and America can feel his own smile returning, through the tears. He remembers how he had felt on that day, how he had known that things weren't okay, but he knew one day they would be. When England returned. And now England is back, and that horrifying cold dread and the awful thoughts in his head that made him wonder if England truly was dead are in the past.

Today is much like back then, he realises. Because things are not okay. But they will be. They  _have_  to be, and he truly believes that.

Just not today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> Apparently it's Mayuge Day, aka a day dedicated to England's eyebrows, which is an actual thing that this fandom celebrates. Here's my contribution. The angstfest of horror (yeah, that's definitely sticking). I mean, it's gone midnight here, but most of you guys are American. It's still the 3rd where you are.
> 
> Good news! I had an epiphany a few weeks back, about what I'm gonna do with this fic. I've had the idea for an ending in mind for a while now, and several major plot points that lead there (I actually tried to foreshadow some of them in this chapter, but more on that later), but I now have a clear course set for how I want to get there. Like all the way back in chapter 1, I'm still talking about it like I'm a sailor. Or a pirate. Still sounds good to me.
> 
> I definitely want to do more 2P stuff in the next chapter, as I've been neglecting them a bit recently. I'm getting closer and closer to my big reveal for exactly what happened to them, and I'm pretty excited about that.
> 
> I was tempted to have Sealand sorta just completely leap at England with a surprise hug, but the kid's pretty smart. He knows England has an aversion to touch, and saw how the whole thing with Australia played out, so I made him silently ask for permission first. I figured that would be better. As for the whole thing with England and touching now, he's sorta at a crossroads. On the one hand, it still freaks him out. On the other hand, as you've probably noticed, he's kinda craving comfort now. It's ironic, honestly. I feel bad.
> 
> I had to bring the thing with the Christmas chocolates back too. (If you're having trouble remembering what that's all about- I mean I wrote that well over a year ago- it's back in chapter 16.) I figured if anything was gonna help mend the thing between England and Sealand, it had to be that.
> 
> I had feelings writing that last section with America and England. Serious feelings. I have a tendency to get a little emotional with my writing after midnight. I wrote this thing a few weeks ago- a rough idea for the final chapter of one of my Game of Thrones fics- and got incredibly deep and emotional Stark feels at about 2 in the morning. I wrote stuff that actually made me tear up. And when I woke up hours later, I went over it and was like, this isn't even that sad wtf. But yeah. I hope the USUK is adequate and wholesome. Far more so than the rest of the story, amirite? Like I said, we are getting there.
> 
> Super psyched to post another one of my USUK fics soon. The one I have in mind is another angsty canonverse- that's seriously my favourite genre in Hetalia, as long as there's a happy ending. I don't handle tragic endings all that well, so yeah, the 'angst with a happy ending trope' is totally my jam. Which brings me to my next point- I don't know if I've ever mentioned whether the Ash Song ending will be happy or not. I want it to be, for England's sake, honestly. I'm aiming for bittersweet more than anything though. I suppose we'll see when we get there.
> 
> I should make peace with the fact that I will never cease with my long A/Ns. It's an inevitability.
> 
> Thank you all so much once again for all the feedback in the last chapter, and for the story overall. I'm gonna keep trying to reply to comments, because despite how bad I am at it, I really did like talking to you all. I'm always available on my APH tumblr, as I'm working on posting more and more fanart there.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


	27. Brewing Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got a normal personal blog now that's under my usual username at rezeren.tumblr.com. And I swear that that won't take you to the multifandom trashheap that a bunch of you discovered a few months ago, probably thinking it would be normal, personal blog. That one's under a new ridiculous username, so we can put that out of the way. You can message me on the new blog (I'm trying to get better at talking to people. I'm failing epically at Discord but Tumblr's going a little better), as I can't do private messaging on my Hetalia blog.
> 
> Okay is2g I will reply to all the comments. I knew vowing to do so would be a bad idea. I still haven't replied to comments from two chapters ago. I'm awful.
> 
> I'm also awful because there was meant to be some present, 1Pverse stuff in this chap too, but I had to cap it. Why does that make me awful? Because there was gonna be USUK. Or as close to USUK as America and England can get at this point in the story.
> 
> This chapter is entirely 2Pverse flashbacks, which I didn't want to take up an entire chapter writing. But hey, I guess we're here now. There isn't a lot of dialogue, I'm afraid, but there would be a lot less if England wasn't using his new favourite coping mechanism (you'll see). This chapter is mostly descriptive stuff. It's actually super ironic that I write heavy descriptions (I honestly wish I wouldn't) because I have a lot of trouble reading dense paragraphs. It's like the entire reason I got audio books for A Song of Ice and Fire.
> 
> Despite all this, though, I'm sorta glad I answered some questions in this chapter. I'm trying to reveal shit about the 2P world gradually, and this is basically just a big wallop of info.
> 
> So I've noticed I'm in a bit of a cycle. I draw obsessively when I'm feeling insecure about my writing and write obsessively when I'm feeling insecure about my art. And judging by how bad I felt after the last piece of art I posted (plus the fact that I ditched my blog for 2 weeks cuz I felt like absolute shit), it's the writing's turn rn lmao. I'm still planning on posting that other USUK fic soon. Just gotta write a bit more first.
> 
> But thank you! So much! For all the comments! I legit can't put how happy I am into words but honestly that whole dark period a few months ago? It kind of feels bizarre now. That I really was that worried about this fic. You guys have been nothing but supportive, and I can never thank you enough!
> 
> It's 2:30am in the UK right now, so technically it's the 24th now. But fuck it. Happy birthday, England! ... 2 and a half hours after your birthday ended.
> 
> Warnings: references to violence, but... no actual violence? At all? Tf? I feel like I must have written violence in here, it's a 2P chapter for god's sake. But no. No actual violence. Okay. Er, some sad depressing thoughts, and yeah, like I said, a lot of descriptive shit.
> 
> Allons-y!

_The nightmares are hard to bear, and yet the dreams are crueller still._

_The nightmares are simple, straightforward, expected; they're of things that haven't happened but could, like the thought of Francois's hands all over his body, tugging and digging in meaningless frustration, or of Allen scraping out his eyes with a knife, or Oliver squeezing drops of England's blood on the white icing of a cupcake._

_The fear of Francois is quelled slightly by a certain amount of security he seems to provide. Something about Francoise's presence is somewhat comforting, despite the disgust England feels whenever he looks at the dull, lifeless version of France. Francoise being here offers England some protection, as he is as intent as ever on keeping Allen and Oliver in line. While he never lifts a finger to stop the other two from having their way, England isn't made to participate in anything too dangerous. Despite his complete apathy, England's safety seems to matter enough._

_Allen, Oliver and Francoise still ask him questions sometimes, especially pertaining to England's human name. In this world, they never refer to each other by their real names, and the fact that they only know their prisoner as 'England' clearly aggravates them. Outwardly, they never act irritated (or even particularly intrigued in Francois's case, despite all the questions). But England knows to look for the smaller details- such as the way Allen's fists clench ever so slightly when England refuses to answer the question; or how, while Oliver's mouth always remains frozen in a smile, his eyes flash and the skin underneath them twitches._

_There is an irony is Francois being the most inquisitive of the three, something England had once pondered over in confusion. Francois, after all, has been asking questions since he arrived here. He'd been the first to completely drill England about the other world and his own counterpart after all, and the interest had disturbed England greatly- almost as much as that faint, empty lust in Francois's eyes. Everything about him reeks of hunger for everything, and yet he doesn't seem to care about anything. Eventually, the questions lose what little energy they ever had to begin with, and Francois's words become automated and bored, as if he's grown tired of it but it is still his job._

_It's as if he remembers caring, if he ever did to begin with, and tries to compensate for the hole it's left behind. He must have cared, once. Before the big change happened, whatever it was. Back when Allen, Oliver and Francois were known as America, England and France, and they still gave a shit about the world around them._

Oliver likes to stoke the fires. He likes that they belong to him now, and forgets what it is like to is much the same. But he craves helplessness. Not in himself, but in whoever he chooses to play with. He likes to see what his toys do with themselves once he's torn them down.

_England mulls over Francois's words a great deal as the weeks and months pass by. Francois must have his own story; a before and an after, an explanation for what happened, a reason for why he is the way he is. They're all filling in voids inside of them, one way or another. England fills in the gaps where he can, throwing guesses and theories into a small section of the ultimate enigma this world poses, like the mystery of these three nations is merely a small corner of a much larger jigsaw puzzle._

_(In England's mind, the puzzle itself is very far from completion, with only the odd piece scattered here and there, and yet he knows what picture the pieces will make, what it will always come down to-)_

_(A raging fire, swallowing the whole world, until everything has turned to ash-)_

_But it seems that what he has seen so far is already ash. The world crumbled long before he came here, and what remains is simply remnants of what once was._

_The nightmares fill in the blanks in his mind and help to create the picture. England has always dreamt of wars long since passed, but what he sees in his sleep is something else entirely. He dreams of the ground caving in, dragging buildings, trees and screaming people in their thousands into a churning abyss below; of fires tearing across lands and oceans alike, flames as high as the clouds and unnaturally bright and blinding; of monsters of ash and smoke, black as obsidian, emerging from the debris and spreading across the world until all traces of light and colour have faded into a desaturated dim._

_He fits right in, he knows deep down. What remains of him is something different, something moulded by the flames, the knives and the wolves._

_For he once crumbled too._

* * *

_While the nightmares scare him, the dreams_ terrify  _him._

_He knows not to fear for his life now, because they obviously need him alive. But instinct isn't prone to reason, and his gut now twists in alarm when he thinks of death. He almost misses the numbness at the start, the resignation to the end when he had been dying. Now, however, he dreads the possibility, unrealistic as it may be._

_But it isn't death itself that he fears, his dreams tell him. It is being lost._

_It is never finding home._

_It is never feeling safe again._

_His nightmares are of this new and twisted world. His dreams are of the world he was torn from._

_He doesn't want to die without them. Without his loved ones. He wants to see them again. He wants them so badly that his dreams of them are the true night terrors. While they are a soft and gentle comfort, they tear into him in a way Allen's knives and the jaws of the wolves never could. They dangle hope in front of him, and waking up to reality while the loss washes over him is the most painful thing of all._

_Eventually, he shuts out reason altogether, and his mind begins to shield him with fantasy he can entertain in his waking moments too. His dreams gradually manifest into real life, in the long drawn out moments of solitude he can get when he isn't being used as a punching bag._

_At first, he imagines their hands. Touch is something painful now, reserved only for violence. It is the only physical contact he knows in this world, and so he tries to fix it as best he can. At night, he imagines fingers running gently through his hair, palms stroking his cheeks, arms wrapping him in an embrace. It never feels real enough, but perhaps that is best. If it felt real, the touch would only alarm and unsettle him._

_The voices come next. His brothers whisper in soothing tones when he is half asleep, singing ancient lullabies in languages lost to the ages. His former colonies, what few friends he has, anyone he has ever considered family in one way or another, all chat away and joke around like everything is normal and he is really with them. The chatter of a world meeting, the laughter of children, the quiet hum of his old life, all return to him in a soothing haze of memories and daydreams, until the biting fear and the aching boredom alike are chased away._

_'We are here,' they say when he is too tired and empty to fight away the notion that they probably never would. 'We've found you. We won't leave.'_

_If he's going to spend the rest of his life in this hellish dimension with these monsters, he won't let himself feel alone._

* * *

' _It's nice, today,' one of the voices says. 'It's bright. And warm.'_

_England already knows this. He's been awake for thirty minutes or so, and hadn't been quite able to resist peeking out of the curtains when he'd noticed that the light streaming through the gaps was brighter than usual. It doesn't make him happy, not like he would have expected it to. He had once relished days where the weather was nice. They were perfect for gardening and walks in the countryside, and he could pretend there was more to his climate that dull white clouds and drizzling rain._

_But this isn't like that. The world outside is as silent as ever, with no bustle of city life or birdsong. The bright light is making him queasy, as if the mere thought of sunny days is now mortifying. Upon discovering the change in weather, he had climbed back into bed almost immediately and pulled the covers over his head to block it out. He pictures how it was before, back in his old world. He thinks of the flowers in his garden, and how overgrown the bushes must be by now. He doubts anyone will be tending to it. He had left in the autumn, when most of the plants had withered and died. But it is the summer now, and surely his garden must have blossomed, unkept as it probably is._

_'You're homesick,' the voice says._

No shit,  _England bites back, rolling over in his bed to face the wall. It makes no difference, with his head still submerged in the darkness under his covers._

_'Oh, so now you're sulking?' the voice teases, and instead of shooting back a snappy retort in his head, England feels mildly pleased. He likes these conversations, or else he wouldn't be having them. Then again, he knows how self destructive his mind can be. If he didn't like them, he'd probably still force himself to play._

_The tone of the voice is familiar and soothing. He wants it to keep talking._

_'Come and have a look,' it continues chirpily, and England is tempted to do so. Perhaps the sunlight will soothe him, like it used to on those walks his used to take, over hills and through forests, to visit all those crumbling castles and small, winding streams. If he headed deep enough into the trees, he could always find himself in the company of the fae, with no people around to disturb him. Just how it had been before he had anyone else, when he was just a small child and the trees and rivers and hills were all he knew._

_But the memories only sadden him. He missed them enough before he came to this world, before he realised he could lose so much more than just the peaceful isolation his youth offered._

_'Since when do you get such nice weather?' the voice says, humour laced through each word._

It's not nice,  _England replies, squeezing his eyes shut. As if hiding under the bed covers and facing the other way wasn't enough already._

_'It's nicer than it usually is here,' the voice reasons. 'Look- you can almost see the sun.'_

_Almost. Not quite. This world is still poison, even if something good might seep into it._

_'Don't be such a grouch,' the voice urges him. 'Come on, England.'_

_England flinches at the sound of his name, and a chill rises up from his skin, omitting the warmth around him. He only ever hears it from them now; and they use it coldly, with no familiarity. But he won't ever give him any other name. They have no right to it._

_The voice almost says sorry. England almost makes it. He wishes it would. He could make it happen. But it has to feel real, or he won't believe it. It won't sound like him if it doesn't feel real._

_'Come on, Iggy,' the voice says finally, and something inside England caves in._

* * *

_For the first time in a while, England can feel a warm breeze gently washing over his face._

_The only warmth he has truly known in these last few months has been the water in the bathroom, for cleaning wounds and rinsing blood stains off his skin, and the false safety the soft bed covers offer him each night. There's always heat in the kitchen too, whenever he dares to enter- or whenever he's forced to, which is a far more regular occurrence. At night despite the blankets and the shelter, he still finds himself shivering. He sometimes feels as if he can't shake off the biting chill of that cell in the basement, as if his body is simply anticipating being thrown back in there._

_Today, the warmth is gentle. Natural. Pressing on his skin gently from above. When he peers up, he has to squint. After months of relative darkness inside his room with curtains usually closed, the bright sky is almost painful to look at. It's just as white as ever, but the clouds seem to be thinner than the other times Allen has brought him out here for a brawl- something that has become rather systematic over time. It usually ends with England on the ground, what with Allen's bigger size and muscles. England's advantage, however, is that he now has a much stronger tolerance for pain. So while he tends to find himself falling, he more often than not strives to at least pull Allen down with him._

_Francoise is gone now, having left a few days earlier. This news had frightened England, loathe as he was to admit it. What little safety Francoise's presence had offered him is likely gone as well._

_Francoise hadn't wished anyone a farewell. He had simply informed them that he needed to relay what little information they had all gathered (to which his dull eyes had found England), and then he was out the door. He hadn't even seemed to care about staying or leaving._

_In a moment of sheer panic, England had opened his mouth and almost,_ almost  _pleaded to go with Francoise. But no words had been able to form, and already he began berating himself for such an obvious show of weakness._

_He doesn't like Francoise. He resents the pure indifference on a face so familiar to him, a face that he remembers to always be full of passion in all its forms. He should have been glad to be rid of at least one of these nations._

_But he wasn't. He still isn't._

_Francoise was just a small ounce of protection, but he was enough._

_And now England is alone here with the other two, knowing full well that they will do whatever they Goddamn please with him, as long as his heart is still beating by the end of the day._

_England is needed, after all, for whatever it is they're all planning. They won't let him die. But Allen and Oliver will hurt him, as they've already proven. They'll go to great lengths to push him to his limit for their own amusement._

_Which is why his vision blurs and his stomach clenches when he is ushered out the door. Allen and Oliver are in a rush, acting as if England's late for something and he needs to hurry. He grows more suspicious when Allen makes no move to follow him out onto the street. He and Oliver remain on the steps to the front door, watching him as he trudges down the garden path, glancing behind him nervously._

_'It's not nice, is it? Being cooped up all the time. You're looking awfully pale,' Oliver says cheerfully. 'Some fresh air will do you good. Have a nice day! Off you pop!'_

_It feels like he's sending England off for a day of leisure. He might as well pack him a picnic basket, England muses sourly. He wouldn't put it past Oliver. And the food would probably be tainted in something toxic._

_He glances back at Oliver, growing more apprehensive by the second. He gets plenty of fresh air- if you could call the air in this desolate, rundown city 'fresh'- every time Allen takes him outside for a brawl, once a fortnight at the very least- so why the need for a sudden day out? Admittedly, he does spend the rest of his time indoors, shut away in his room for the most part. With nothing to keep his mind occupied, England has grown rather accustomed to the boredom. It was easier to manage when he first got here, locked away in the cell; after all, he had been in complete agony throughout the ordeal, which was a particularly big distraction. Directly after the incident with the wolves, days had phased into each other meaninglessly and he was barely capable of registering when he was even awake or simply dreaming, let alone what he could do to occupy his mind._

_But his mind is growing stronger, and he's starting to feel much more like himself. He is still often plagued with the strange sense that he is an imposter in his own body, omniscient and only a witness to everything happening around him. This feeling, however, is fading more and more each day. It's as if each new punch from his sessions with Allen are smacking feeling into his skin once more, reminding him that he is alive, that this is his life and body, that he is_ England.

_'They're kinda right,' the voice says beside him, and the owner shrugs. 'You need to get out.'_

_He's not wrong. The boredom played a huge part in the voices coming to him to begin with. England almost sighs._

This must be a game,  _he thinks._ They're planning something.

_'Oh yeah, for sure. Those guys are totally nuts,' his companion agrees, as casually as the real him would. 'They're letting you go off on your own, man. Who's to say you won't just run off?' He lowers his voice. 'You could do that, you know. You could at least try-'_

No. I can't.  _England pulls his gaze away from Allen and Oliver and stares on ahead._ If there was a chance I could make it, they would never let me go.

_They'll certainly be watching him, however it is they manage to so. They were able to keep tracks on him when they set the wolves on him all those months ago, and they knew_ exactly  _when to pull him out. The whole experience is still a complete mystery to him._

_And although a part of him longs to run, to never have to see this broken street with its crumbled houses, nor the ghastly gleaming eyes and twisted smiles of the two nations behind him. To never feel their poison gushing down his throat or their knives and fists tearing into and pummelling against his skin. Let them call him a coward. This red, angry pride he seems to still hold onto, nestled deep down in his chest, won't truly help him. Whether he appeases them or not, he still belongs to them in their eyes._

_'Don't stay out too late,' Allen's voice leers from behind him. 'We wouldn't want you getting lost or anything.'_

_England rolls his eyes. If only he could get lost. Perhaps they'd never be able to find him again, and he could get as far away as possible-_

_No. They'd send the wolves after him, without a doubt. England shivers, hoping that he is far enough away now for Allen and Oliver to spot it._

_'Forget about that,' his companion says quickly, and some of the other voices chime in as well, quickly reassuring him that it won't happen, that this is just a walk like the ones he used to love taking, that nothing bad will happen._

_He knows none of it is true, but it's nice to have a part of him that speaks through them, a part that still hopes for something better._

_After taking one long, deep breath, England sets off._

* * *

_The overgrown plants are oddly refreshing, England comes to realise quite quickly. As wild and abandoned as the streets he wanders through look, the thick clumps of leaves and vines twisting around the bricks of the houses are a relief to look at. In a world as bleak and dreary as this one, it is nice to see some green. Especially when it reminds him of his countryside back in the other world. He trudges through the undergrowth for a while, glancing around wistfully at the vegetation. It really could be like being back on one of those old walks, if only there were birds singing._

_But the city is as quiet as ever, and England doesn't want to think of home right now._

_He is on alert, knowing full well that something is going to happen eventually. He has no idea what to expect, but he knows better than to relax and let his memories distract him. He will not let the game, whatever it turns out to be, catch him off-guard._

_'Yeh should have something,' one of the voices advises him, in the gruff, serious tone of his eldest brother. 'To protect yerself with. In case they come.'_

_England can't quite think of any weapon suitable enough to shield him from an entire pack of wolves, but something is better than nothing._

_There are plenty of old, rusted bricks lying around, as well as various other blunt pieces of debris, but England wants something a little sharper. He heads deeper into the city, climbing over piles of rubble every so often in the hopes of spotting any metal railings or a wooden fence post that he might use._

_'Of course,' his brother's voice continues. 'Yeh've got other options. Ones yeh ain't even tried out properly yet.'_

_England bites his lip and squints at the dusty haze in front of him. Down at the other end of the street, he can just make out a square. There's some kind of a monument in the centre, but he can't quite make it out from here- probably a statue or a memorial at a guess. The overgrown plants aren't so in abundance anymore, having cleared up more and more by each street. The further he heads into the city, the closer he gets to where the fire struck, and so he can understand why the area around him is losing all signs of life. The square up ahead seems mostly absent of any clumps of greenery. The street itself is mostly bear of both plants and rubble, and so the large black object just a few feet away is easy to spot._

_It's a car. But it's certainly not an ordinary one- not in this century. England is suddenly hit with a wave of nostalgia as he takes in the sight of the familiar curved metal and the distinct rectangular shapes. He'd had a car like this, a while back. Not exactly the fanciest one around, but certainly a good and respectable make. Keeping up appearances (and showing off a little to his brothers) had been expected of him after all, he had enjoyed owning one at the time; few people did, and it really had felt like he was embracing the future, regardless of how much he valued a more traditional past. The pride of owning it had all but vanished when war broke out again, and suddenly it had seemed awfully redundant. He'd sold it and gone off to fight alongside his allies, and when it was all over cars had eventually stopped being a prestigious rarity._

_People still own cars like this, of course, but they're rarer to see now than they were back then. England steps closer and peers through the windows. The grass is grimy and the whole car is coated in a thick layer of dust, ash and dirt. Like everything else in this city, it has been here for a very long time, completely abandoned._

_Once again, England is struck with an enormous sense of having stepped completely out of his time. The old fashioned buildings with their barricaded windows are one thing, but this is something else. It further confirms what England is already quite certain of- that whatever happened to this world, or at least to Oliver, was less than less than a hundred years ago. Early to mid-twentieth century at a guess. Because of a war. The Second World War, most likely._

_'Why won't yeh just try?' his brother's voice says, snapping him out of his thoughts._

_'Yeh could get yerself outta this mess,' another brother chimes in. 'Yeh could at least protect yerself.'_

_England ignores them and continues on down the street, heading for the square. He must be drawing closer to the parts of the city that were hit by the flames all those months ago, and yet he still can't see any hints of fire damage on the buildings around him. There is still debris here and there, of course, but this is much older. He wanders, briefly, if this is why Oliver never reacted to the city being torched. Perhaps Oliver has been in a perpetual state of pain for decades with the city ruined in the way it is, to the point that he's grown completely accustomed to the pain? But even while thinking it, England knows it can't be right._

_Oliver doesn't feel pain. He doesn't feel_ anything.  _Just like Allen and Francoise, and possibly the rest of the world too._

_He reaches the square, and sure enough, the monument turns out to be a memorial for the First World War. There's something rather comforting about spotting something so familiar, even if it is the mark of a tragedy. The memorial itself is barely in a good condition, as filthy as the rest of the area around it, and the names on the plaque are difficult to read because of it. Nevertheless, England does feel oddly at peace for a moment as he stands before it._

_Somewhere on the other side of it, England hears a small clanking sound, and he instinctively ducks down, pressing himself to the monument. After a few seconds of trying to regulate his breathing, he braces himself and peers round the memorial, just in time to hear the sound again. A brick is tumbling down a small pile of debris, having been dislodged like the first one. A moment later, a small wooden beam rolls down too, and England spots the source of the commotion just above it._

_A wolf is clambering down the pile of debris, paying no heed to the rubble it sends tumbling to the ground. It reaches the bottom quickly enough, its dark grey paws clattering to a stop. It looks around the square for a moment, before its face turns to the memorial and its red eyes fix on England._

_He pulls his head back quickly and flattens himself against the memorial again, his heart thumping wildly. It's useless, he realises immediately. The wolf has already spotted him after all._

_'It's just the one wolf,' one of the voices says. 'And you're bigger than you were before.'_

_'Yeh can protect yerself,' his brother adds, but England squeezes his eyes shut and curls up slightly, shivering. The voices are wrong. He can't protect himself, and he knows he can't run either. It doesn't matter that the wolf is alone, or that he is bigger and stronger than before; the wolf is still the predator, and he is still the prey._

_The voices begin screaming out his own desperate internal pleas to try and defend himself against all odds, but England is frozen in place, waiting,_ waiting _…_

_Any moment now, it will all come back- the grinding of bones, the tearing of flesh, the blinding, searing pain crashing through his body…_

_He can't hear the voices anymore, only the blood in his ears and his quick, shallow breaths._

_A minute or two must pass, because eventually England is able to acknowledge that time has passed, and his body is still intact and no pain has come. He opens his eyes slowly and takes in the sight of the street he came down, with its abandoned houses and its grimy, ancient car. The wolf is nowhere in sight. Perhaps it is still on the other side of the memorial. Maybe it didn't spot him after all._

_No. It must be able to hear him. It must be able to smell him. And it certainly did see him._

_Eventually, England manages to shift. His limbs are quivering and sluggish, but they move. He peers around the memorial again, only to find the wolf still standing there, still watching him. It hasn't moved an inch._

_Slowly, England rises to his feet and steps out, his eyes locked with the wolf's own pair. They are a bright crimson, standing out rather shockingly against the grey fur. They shine unnaturally, and the way the wolf simply stands there, the way it holds itself, as still as a statue, instead of sniffing around or God forbid, attacking England, is different from the other wolves._

_It continues to stare at him, unblinking. Not a single part of its body moves; no flick of the ear, no swish of the tail. It doesn't look as if it's going to attack him. It doesn't look as if it's going to do anything._

_This is no ordinary wolf, that much is certain. And if its body language wasn't enough to convince England of this, its eyes certainly do. Those aren't wolf eyes. They belong to something else._

_England knows whose eyes they are, and with a horrible wrench in his stomach, he understands how Allen and Oliver were able to keep a watch on him last time._

_The wolf lifts its head up slightly, red eyes gleaming. It knows that England knows. It would probably be smirking if it could._

_England clenches his fists, taking comfort in the steely anger that sweeps through him. He turns around and starts walking back down the street._

* * *

_It has to be around midday before England finds anything else interesting._

_For the most part, the city is filled with identical streets; rubble in piles, spread across the road and covered in moss, bushes and small trees lining the pavement, the occasional carriage or car left to the side. A lot of the plants are gone now, and England finally finds a blackened tree when he turns a corner. The branches are unusually bare for this time of year, the leaves having been singed off. The bark looks dead, and when England reaches up to touch it, his fingers come away covered in soot. Oddly, the buildings around the tree look untouched by the fire, despite it clearly having touched this area._

_He finds other trees in similar situations as he moves on. While the plants have all but vanished now, and the concrete beneath his feet is utterly covered in ash, the buildings all look as if they've taken no damage from the blaze whatsoever. In fact, they're in better condition than the outskirts of the city. There are no more piles of rubble lying around, nor the tell tale signs of bombing from many years before. Although they still resemble all the other buildings from the time period the city must have been abandoned in, they look fresher somehow. Cleaner. As if they're new._

_Up ahead, England spots movement. He thinks it must be the wolf at first, until he notices the figure standing on two legs, in the distinct shape of a person._

_Perhaps spying on him wasn't enough. Perhaps Allen and Oliver decided to come along personally._

_Knowing that there's no use in hiding from either of them, England continues down the street, heading straight for them. He doesn't want to be anywhere near them, but the last thing he wants is for them to think his fear is overpowering him again. He's already slipped up once today with the wolf, and he won't let it happen again._

_As he draws closer, however, it becomes abundantly clear that this figure isn't Allen or Oliver. It isn't Francoise, coming back to join them either. It doesn't even look like any of the other nations from the old world. It's a new person entirely._

_A human._

_England knows they must have always been relatively close by. They were, after all, the ones who set fire to the city, according to Oliver. But this is the first time he has seen one since his arrival, and for the first time in a while, something tugs at England's chest._

_He is caught up in a second by a whirlwind of images, of his people in all sorts of ordinary and mundane moments of life; of them walking along the streets, of them singing together in church, of them laughing and talking and living. He sees children squealing in delight as they run around a playground together, and an underground train packed with people on their way to work. And finally, he sees a huge group gathered around a bonfire in the middle of a field, while the stars twinkle and shine above. He sees them light the fireworks and launch them into the sky, and cheer and laugh as they explode in bright colours up above-_

_England blinks. He sees the long, ash covered street, with its burnt trees and clean houses, and the figure at the end. He has snapped back to reality, but the_ feeling _those images brought…_

_He truly understands in this moment exactly what losing all of that means. What toll it is really taking on him, to be apart from his people, and how dearly he misses them. With the other nations, individuals he knew personally, his relationships were always complicated. The humans dictated their formal relations, deciding whether they would be allies or enemies. Naturally, the more informal, personal side of things was affected by that. He misses them all, more than he could have ever understood or believed before all of this, so much so that the thought of them moving on without him feels as if it's tearing him apart…_

_With his own people, things are different. Most of them have never met him, and don't even know that he exists. And yet, the love he holds for them is and has always been unconditional. They are connected to him, they are a part of him… or at least, they were. Because coming to this world tore him away from them, and left him missing something very important inside of him._

_He can feel the emptiness, the gaping void in his chest, more prominently than ever when he looks at the figure up ahead, and a lump forms in his throat. His feet begin to move again on their own accord, but his mind offers no resistance. The human up ahead is one of his people, and yet they are not. This is not his world, but he is connected to it. The fire on his first night proved that. While the connection between him and his own world was severed, he was bound to this one instead._

_Does this mean he is tied to the humans here? He carries on walking forwards, drawing closer and closer to the figure. It's a man, dressed in a dirtied and rather ragged brown coat that looks too thick for such warm weather. Despite this, the man is awfully pale, seemingly unaffected by the heat. In his arms is a small heap of bricks, which he then dumps into a rusty wheelbarrow by the side of a blackened stump of a tree that has snapped in half. Little sticks from broken branches crack and crumble into ash underneath the wheel as the man grabs the handles of the wheelbarrow and begins steering it further down the street._

_England follows, intent on reaching him. He has no idea what is going to happen. He only knows that he is drawn to the human by the unmistakable pull of the emptiness inside him wishing to be filled._

_He could fix himself, he could become whole again-_

' _He isn't one of your people,' one of the voices says, and England imagines the owner standing behind him, grimacing. 'The people here burn their capital. Your people are back in our world.'_

_England doesn't want to listen. But a part of him must believe this, or else he wouldn't be giving it a voice._

' _You might be tied to this world now,' the voice says. 'But not entirely. You aren't connected to them. You can feel the emptiness.'_

_Of course he can. That's why he wants to fill it in._

' _This isn't home,' another voice adds softly. 'Your home is with us. You won't find it here.'_

_Dammit, England doesn't_ want  _his home to be here. But if he's going to be trapped here, he can make it a little better. He can find people. He can fill the void. He can feel whole once more, even if he's still a prisoner, even if he doesn't belong here-_

_The man halts as England approaches. For a second, the nation worries that his lack of speech will be an issue; how is he going to greet anyone? Perhaps sign language, or maybe if he could find something to write with-_

_The man turns around to face him, and his mind goes blank._

_The wolf's red eyes were unsettling enough, but this is something else entirely._

_The man's eyes are black._

_It is more than just his pupil, more than just his iris. There is nothing but black across both eyeballs. There isn't even a shine from the sunlight. Just a complete dark abyss._

_England stumbles backwards in shock, all the desperation from before washing away in an instant. Face to face with the man, his previous desire to find some kind of a bond with the humans seems unthinkable._

_Something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong._

_The man says nothing. His face is devoid of expression, largely hidden under a tangled fringe of grimy brown hair and a face that looks as if it hasn't been washed in months. His hands are even filthier, covered in soot and dirt and God knows what else. They're heavily calloused, with scabs running along the fingers and broken yellow fingernails at the end. The smell is rancid and staggering; the man doesn't seem as if he's taking care of himself at all, and this is further emphasised by the dark, wrinkled bags under his black eyes, etched in on his pale, grey face._

_It's impossible to tell if the man's eyes are looking at him or not, and yet England knows they are. He takes a step back, and then another, still horrifically transfixed by the sight before him._

_The man seems to tense slightly, before he opens his mouth slowly to reveal rotten teeth. He inhales deeply, like he's savouring a scent in the air, then begins stepping forwards briskly. England recoils when the man's hands reach out to grab him._

_In this moment, England almost misses being the rabbit. He was smaller and harder to catch, and much, much faster. But he was more vulnerable back then. At least now, as he tears back up the street in an effort to get away, he knows that if he gets caught, this is an opponent he should be able to beat. Nations are all physically stronger than humans, even if that… that_ thing  _back there isn't quite human anymore._

_But after a few twists and turns he comes around another corner to find an answer to why the buildings look new. Up and down this short new street, he spies what must be at least fifty people. Like the man, their clothes, skin and hair are all filthy and unkept, and not a single flicker of emotion can be spotted across any of their faces. They too are pushing wheelbarrows back and forth, heaving piles of pricks up to the houses. The buildings here have clearly been affected by the fire, and the people are clearly in the process of rebuilding the damaged areas._

_They set the city on fire each year, only to repair it as best they can for the next year? What purpose could that possibly serve? Oliver had called it a tradition, but why on earth would any of them_ want  _to do this?_

_He halts in the middle of the road, staring at them. There must be more of them elsewhere in the city, working throughout the year, if they can restore the buildings in time for the fifth of November. Each one of them shares the same ashen, weary look as the man- and yet they go about their work in complete silence, with no signs of obvious physical exhaustion. No one is out of breath or red in the face, and their limbs move almost mechanically, routinely performing the same task over and over again with no changes, from pulling bricks out of wheelbarrows to climbing up scaffolding to slapping the bricks onto walls. Each one of them seems identical in the way they behave, like they are simply machines performing these tasks._

_But they aren't machines. They're people. Empty people._

_Empty people for an empty country._

_England understands in that moment. Whatever it was that made it happen, whether he caused it or whether something did this to him, Oliver is completely disconnected from them. From the land and from the people. He is not their nation. He's not a nation at all anymore, but something else entirely, and Allen and Francoise are the same. Without their people, they have become what they are. And without their nation, these people have become what_ they _are._

_A new, disturbing thought hits him. Is this what has become of his own people in his absence? Have they transformed into empty shells of their former selves, performing meaningless tasks with no true purpose?_

_England shakes away the horrified thought quickly. No. He hasn't changed into something like Allen, Oliver and Francoise, so why should they? Besides, they still have Scotland and Wales. They should be better off than this._

' _That's right,' one of his brother's voices whispers soothingly in his ear. 'They're fine. Of course they are.'_

_But these people aren't. They look half-dead, and yet they continue to work away regardless. His earlier desire to be with them, to feel connected, is replaced by an overwhelming sense of pity. He doesn't know how this happened to them, or if it can be reversed, but the fact remains that the humans, like their former respective nations, weren't always like this. And they can't possibly deserve it._

_He hears footsteps shuffling towards him, and he turns to find the man approaching, having followed him through the streets. The man's eyes are as black and desolate as ever, but his face betrays some kind of feeling; a sort of grim desperation that England recognises, having felt it only a few minutes before. The man is rasping, his mouth still open. The heavy breaths aren't from exhaustion, but are more like hungered gasps, as if he is just as eager to reach England as the latter previously was to reach him._

_And as England backs away and turns to face the others again, he finds them all frozen in place, staring back at him. Matching faces all break out in the same dreadful yearning, as if England can give them something they need._

_He is a nation without people, and so he was drawn to them. They are people without a nation, and so they are now drawn to him._

_But they don't appear to have clear minds or be capable of rational thought. They all step down from their perches on the scaffolding or behind wheelbarrows and begin shuffling towards him, growing faster by the second._

_England staggers away, completely mortified. He has no idea_ what  _they want to do to him, but he isn't about to stick around and find out. Filled with fear once again, he narrowly dodges the first man and veers off to the right, down a new, empty street. This feels all too familiar, even if he doesn't have any true idea of how bad this threat is. But he knows for certain that this time, he won't let himself get caught. That will never happen again._

_Even as he races down the road away from them, his mind is still filled with sympathy for them. They aren't really themselves anymore. Given the fact that most of them looked to be fairly young to middle aged, they might never have been ordinary people to begin with. They would have been born after the war, after the world had changed to become like this._

_They are broken without their nation, and crave to fill the void. They've lost a part of themselves, just as he has._

_Is this what Allen and Oliver wanted to show him? Is this their way of answering the questions that have been locked away inside his head this whole time?_

_Perhaps there really is no game today. Only answers. Terrible, terrible answers._

_England keeps on running._

_He's faster than they are, but he won't be able to run forever. He should try and head back to Oliver's house, if he can even find his way back. He probably can, if he is at least tied to the land. He could never lose himself in his own London, after all. But what about these people? Will they follow him all the way back there? What might Allen and Oliver do to them?_

_The voices hush his panicked thoughts, telling him that he needs to focus on escaping the crowd behind him. That he should worry about everything else later, and that right now, all he needs to do is r-_

_Up ahead, only ten feet away, another group of people emerge from an alleyway to the side, filing out quickly in front of him. He falters to a stop and looks around wildly, trying to find an escape to the side, or any gaps in the groups of people on either side of him that he might squeeze through-_

_But there are just buildings on either side of him- old, dusty shops with locked doors and boarded up windows._

' _Protect yerself.' His eldest brother's voice returns, high pitched in England's own panic. 'Yeh can do it, yeh know yeh can. It's different now. Yeh ain't dying anymore, yeh've got yer strength back, yeh know what yeh have to do-'_

_England swivels around in alarm as the people on either side of him draw closer. He clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking and looks at the buildings again, wondering if it might be possible to climb up-_

' _There's no time!' another voice shrieks, and England deliriously tries to envision the owners of the voices standing by his side, really to help fight. But they're not coming (of course they're not coming, he is alone, alone, alone-)._

_He is alone._

' _You don't have to be afraid to use it. You're not like them,' a voice murmurs gently, a calm relief in such a tense situation. 'Try to do something,_ anything.  _Your magic-'_

Doesn't work!  _England hears his own voice scream in his head._ It's useless! I called for months and months and months and no one came! None of you even heard!

_The last thing he needs right now is to break down, but Goddammit, this is too much. It's not enough that the very thought of magic, no matter whose it is, scares the shit out of him- and why wouldn't it? It's the whole bloody reason he was brought here, that he ended up become Allen and Oliver's plaything, that he was torn from his own body and hunted down by wolves._

_It's not just that. It's the memories of being locked in that cell, unable to do anything with his magic other than call for help. Of the aftermath of the wolf attack, in which he didn't even_ try  _to use magic, because he couldn't manage to do_ anything _. Of the fact that even now, months later and his strength returned, he's still frightened at the thought of it. Of using it, and of it failing. It never did him a shred of good when he screamed each night for his fellow nations back home._

_He can't bring himself to do it. Even as the humans close in, he can't find it in himself._

_But he can at least stand. He needn't quiver and curl up and just give up. He's sick of it._

_England will face them._

_They come forwards, reaching out for him in choked gasps, grabbing his clothes and pulling him towards them. He braces himself as they swarm around him, waiting for whatever his fate shall be. For the first time, their black eyes don't seem so hollow now. Unlike before, there is a certain shine to them as they lean in-_

_A vicious growl rips through the air and those closest to him release him in an instant. The humans scatter to the sides in a frenzy, leaving him standing on his own again, blinking in confusion, until he spots the source of the interruption._

_The wolf with red eyes trots over to him, its lips curved in a snarl. Behind it are the rest of the pack, teeth bared and their mouths rumbling menacingly. The humans back away, emotionless but with a rightful sense of caution. They may not be afraid, but they know danger when they see it. Their laboured breathing ceases rather quickly, and with an oddly resigned air of defeat, they turn around and head in the opposite direction from the wolves, shuffling along dejectedly._

_Despite the terror they filled him with before, England almost wishes he could follow them. The other option is staying with the wolves, and already it is quiet enough once more for him to hear the furious beating of his heart and feel the dark, cold chill spreading throughout his entire body. He remains where he is, however, partly out of shock and partly because he already knows running won't do him any good. He learnt that the hard way last time._

_In spite of himself, England finds himself examining each wolf, looking for any that he might recognise. Which one of them was it? Which one of them was the one who caught him last time?_

_The wolf with red eyes steps forwards and looks up at him with a look that England can't possibly understand. Was this a game after all? Was this yet another game of chase that he has failed? Will he be punished for it? Will the wolves be allowed to tear into him again, with just enough restraint to keep him alive?_

_As if confirming this fear, one of the wolves a few feet away approaches, sniffing around him curiously. With a sharp intake of breath, England tenses._

_The wolf pads closer, and then, without any warning, the wolf with red eyes snaps at it, and it retreats backwards, whining softly in submission. The wolf with red eyes, clearly the alpha, emits a low growl at the other wolves, and, one by one, just as the humans did, they skulk off down the street, barely giving England another look, and eventually disappear around a corner._

_The leader stays exactly where it is, still facing England. They stare at each other for a few seconds longer before the wolf turns and heads over to the alleyway the second group of people emerged from. It halts at the entrance and looks back at England, and he realises he is meant to follow._

_He was right before. This truly was no game. If there was a test, he probably lost it when he got caught. Or perhaps he won it, by refusing to cower. Either way, it's all over now._

_And he certainly has some answers._

* * *

_When he arrives back, Oliver fusses excitedly and quickly pulls him into the kitchen for a meal he has prepared for him. Nothing tastes too off or unnatural, which means it's probably not been poisoned. So they're_ not _upset with how today went. Oliver certainly seems pleased._

_Allen joins them about ten minutes later, and he smirks at England in a way the wolf couldn't manage to._

_That night in his room, as England tries to assess all he has learnt today and draw some conclusions from it, Oliver drops by for a visit. He sits at the end of England's bed and smiles widely at him. 'Did you have a nice day?' he asks softly._

_Crouching at the other end of the bed, England neither nods nor shakes his head. He simply watches Oliver, hoping his expression doesn't betray his thoughts._

_Oliver closes his eyes, still smiling. 'You saw them, didn't you? I think they liked you.'_

_That's certainly one way of putting it. England feels a chill creeping up on his skin, and resists the urge to shiver._

_'Good hard work. That's what they do. So they can make our tradition happen each year,' Oliver continues. 'Awfully nice of them, isn't it? But it's the least they can do.'_

_By his side, England feels his fingers curling into a fist._

_'They have to pay, you see,' Oliver says unexpectedly, opening his eyes. The smile is gone. 'Serve their time, so to speak.' He leans closer, his blue eyes flashing with something England hasn't seen so intensely before. For a second, he is convinced he can make out anger on his counterpart's face. But then it is gone, almost as quickly as it came._

' _They're bad people, England,' Oliver says softly._

_England must look sceptical, because Oliver laughs and the smile returns. 'Oh, you might just understand. You really could, you know, if you thought about it the way we do. They did bad things, and now they pay for it.' He grins and slides off the bed, then walks over to the door. He stops when he reaches it and looks back at England._

' _They're bad people,' Oliver repeats, as if it is imperative that England listens. 'And bad people must be punished.'_

Yes,  _England thinks as Oliver leaves and he looks down at his hands. His clenched fists are red and hot, and when he looks up at the closed door he feels a burning storm begin to form inside of him._ They must be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Hetalia blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com
> 
> The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia.tumblr.com/ash-song
> 
> I know some people had some questions about the sort of content I can write, and I don't want to make the A/Ns looks like a novel of their own so I've basically explained it all here: rezeren.tumblr.com/about-me
> 
> (Wow, that's a lot of dumb self promotion. Onto the more important shit.)
> 
> Oliver seems to be irony impaired, doesn't he? Maybe he lost his sense of irony with his ability to give a shit.
> 
> So that USUK stuff I mentioned earlier? Gonna be in the next chapter. Big time. Plus the world nations too, because I am desperate to write more of them. I'm getting really close to the next major plot point in the story, and I'm super excited for it.
> 
> Most of this chapter was written today, because I was kinda like, 'Right, I gotta get back on my feet! Gotta stop feeling like shit about the art and update Ash Song on England's birthday!' And then today came and I was still super pumped about updating Ash Song but my brain was like, 'You gotta write it first, dipshit.' I've spent all of today writing. I'm beat.
> 
> Anyway, I hope I can update soon. The art shit isn't exactly working out rn, so I guess I'll find myself writing a lot more. Especially when I'm this invested in my current fics, especially this one.
> 
> I promise I'll reply to the comments. Eventually. I've been ill for like 6 weeks now and it's kind of terrifying how behind I am on college work. Actually, maybe I should be doing that lmao.
> 
> So yeah, hope you enjoyed this chapter and found it at least a little bit satisfying, even if it was filled with cursed descriptive paragraphs.
> 
> Thanks for reading, and remember to review!


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